Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 1995

I know, I know. Don't kick my ass. I haven't been home, and the place where I was staying had no Internet. But I'm back now, so I figured I'd better deliver something before you all appear on my doorstep with flaming torches. Anyway...

There's this bar I hang out at that hosts something that they refer to as "iPod 80's." I didn't know why the hell the word "iPod" was in there, but I figure that since I have about 200 80's songs on my iPod (I know, I'm lame), I already won whatever contest it was. Plus I know all the bartenders anyway.

So I get to the bar and ask them what's going on tonight, and they tell me to ask the DJ. Way to be informed. I ask him what's happening, and in the process I size him up. Not bad looking, but not Colin Farrell, either. He tells me it has nothing to do with an actual iPod; he just spins 80's tunes all night. Sweet. I offer up my iPod for a playlist and he tells me to come up and show him what I've got. Vague come on? Maybe, but at this point I've lost interest 'cause dude could definitely have benefited from a Tic Tac. Anyway, he lets me totally dictate what he should play for the rest of the night- asking me questions about release dates and artists and shit like that. Then he breaks out the Boston and Madonna circa 1995. I mean, really- that's like a surgeon asking an ob-gyn where the heart valve is. He doesn't even ask me my name or thank me for the $5 (!) beer I buy him for letting me stand up there all night. What a fucking tool.

Luckily, on Saturday I'm supposed to hang out with Awesome, which always makes for an interesting night. I'm eating lunch at home and thinking up plans for the night when I get a text message. To my extreme shock, it's from this dude that I met last Friday night, who for the sake of this blog will be referred to as Social Retard. Awesome went out with his friend, who shall heretofore be known as Semenal Misfire, last week, and according to the Misfire, Social Retard probably wouldn't call me because even though he "really liked me," he wasn't much of a "calling person." Did I mention that this dude has a stand-up of George Bush next to his bed? It's bad enough that he stares at another man as he falls asleep, but GEORGE BUSH? The biggest moron to ever run this country? Uh, no. DELETE. And BTW, Semenal Misfire made Awesome pony up five clams. I think it was for gas or something. Whatever, it was still stupid.

Anyway, that's who the text message is from, and I hate text messages. Awesome refers to them as "half a hand job" because texting someone instead of actually talking to them is a total cop-out. Love it. Social Retard apologizes for not getting back to me sooner, even though I never contacted him in the first place, and asks what I'm up to tonight. I tell him I don't know, but I'll call him later. Awesome calls me when she gets off work ("gets off..." huh huh) and tells me she got a text from Semenal Misfire. We decide to go to a carnival and then meet up with them around 10, since they refuse to come to us. Classy.

I call Social Retard to tell him our plan and he doesn't pick up the phone, yet when I send him a text message, he responds within ten seconds. What is he, 12? I can already tell this night is not ending in any kind of sexual activity. He probably still laughs at the word "boobies." Actually, that is a little funny.

So it's 9:55 and Awesome calls Semenal Misfire, who at this point is doing all the communicating. He tells her they're just starting to get ready now. What the fuck? At this point I'm so pissed I'm ready to turn around and go home, but Awesome wants to stay. Of course they tell us to meet them at a bar with a $9 cover. Yup, nine bucks. As in, one less than 10. We pay our cover and sit there and wait. 10:15 passes. Then 10:30. Then 10:45. They're guys; how long can it take to get ready? I mean, even if they're too busy jerking off to George Bush and having rough anal sex with each other, that's still what, like, 45 minutes?

Finally, even Awesome is getting impatient and she calls Semenal Misfire to ask what time the two of them will be gracing us with their presence and he says, "I don't know, like an hour." Um, exsqueeze much? They expected us to wait for two fucking hours? She then explains that she has to get up early for work tomorrow and therefore has to leave in about 45 minutes and he says, "We'll try to make it."

Oh, hell no. Homey don't play that (although in this case, "Homey" is a small, white Jewish girl as opposed to a big, black clown). Before I can grab the phone and verbally shove my foot up his ass, Awesome replies, "Oh. OK." and hangs up.

I finally convince her to leave about ten minutes later, and as we're driving home, Awesome proceeds to check her voicemail. Semenal Misfire actually called her, saying, "I don't think we're gonna make it." I then get a lame-ass "apology" text message from the Social Retard, saying that he was sorry and that we would talk soon. Yeah, right. I guarantee we never hear from these dudes ever again. And I'm really crying over that one. I would have kicked both their asses, but given as how I have the body of a deformed deer with a D-cup rack, I don't think that would have worked out too well.

If I could stand to look at my own girl parts in the shower, I would totally be a lesbian.