"Do you like sushi?" my friend Hot Coco texted me.
Do I like sushi...what kind of question is that, I ask you? Raw fish wrapped up into pleasant little rolls and served on amusing plates, such as that of a giant motherloving ark. I mean, what is there not to...well, actually, clear throat, I have to admit, I really haven't been much of a sushi fan, all my life.
Which is why, of course, after a long nature hike, Corb and I put on our best silk shirts and headed over to meet Hot Coco and her beau, Wayno, along a friend of Wayno's who was suffering from the aftereffects of a Jekyll/Hyde love affair.
"Try this, and this, and this," Hot Coco would say to me, and two strong drinks (one pink, one blue...Jesus Christ, I drank a boy and a girl drink...story of my life, I guess) and lots of raw fish later, I was feeling no pain and anxious to move on to the next adventure.
"Where's the party tonight?" I texted BG Matt, after ten minutes of indecision.
Half an hour later, we had confiscated all the booze from Hot Coco's pad and were tramping our way over to a decrepit house that looked like John Belushi had thrown up all over it. It was heaven for the frat boy set: a bathroom full of dirty underwear, an old Ms. Pac Man video game and Coco Cola machine in the kitchen, and a game of beer pong taking place on the kitchen table.
"Looks like the average age of this party just went up twenty years," our friend, the handsome Andrew O! said, as we sloshed our way through a muddy dirt road to the front of the house. Which, I would just like to point out, is patently untrue: even if one accepts the premise that the five of us were twenty years older than anyone else there, which of course is *cough cough* debatable, you'd still need to subtract a twenty-something Corb out of that equation, then keep in mind that that aforementioned twenty-off differential would only serve to increase the group average by ten. That is, presuming that you only had four other members of the party there, which you didn't, which would in fact mean that with many other twenty-somethings there the group average was mostly likely only increase by about seven or eight years.
But I digress.
After a rollicking game of Ms. Pac Man with Hot Coco, we then proceeded to discuss such weighty topics as life post-Apocalyptia and, of course, my current favorite obsession, the sex life of Judy Garland.
"Just finished this book," I said. "Vile thing. Said Judy Garland loved sex, and blow jobs in particular. Thought they were therapeutic and healthy."
"She was indeed a wise woman," said BG Matt.
"But she got a little desperate as she got older, and some of the men she got involved with didn't treat her nicely. It was a man's world back then, after all. One guy, after she had given him head, forced her to sing 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' with a load of his DNA in her mouth."
Hot Coco groaned. "I don't think I'll ever be able to look at the Wizard of Oz the same ever again." Well, who could? Just hope none of that spilled on to her ruby slippers.
Two hours later and Corb and I are lurching our way back to the Stang.
Conclusion: I in fact did not experience the agonies of Apocalyptia last night, but had instead been transported into a weird space/time continuum where my body became possessed by the spirit of a youthful Dean Martin. Case closed.