Sometimes you show up to a party and immediately you know you've made a bad decision. You pass through the door, the record skips, stops, some asshole cues cricket sounds, and all the dudes playing Strip Poker pause and stare. You ask where the chicks are and they just say, "We wanted to get in a few practice rounds before they showed up." They trade glances and laugh that you'd ask such a stupid question, loser.
That's pretty much the same situation I stepped into a few weeks back. I had left the house drunk, so I'm not sure how or why I ended up at this particular party but I did, and maybe I'm naive but the fact that it was mostly dudes listening to Shania Twain should have set off a few alarms in my head. Anyways, remember Big Jeb? The jerk who poured a pitcher of beer over my head, sending me out of the bar in a fit of tears? Well, here's a little background on him for all you folks not in the know: everytime I've seen him at the bar he's worn a pair of overalls, no shirt underneath, pockets stuffed with all kinds of dirt. "Dirt?" you say.
It's not uncommon to pull up to some dive and see a semi-circle, Jeb at the center, and some poor shmoe in the middle with a mouthful of soil; all the while Big Jeb and his goons saying things like, "Hoo yeah, eat that dirt, boy!" or "If you like that mudpie, I can whip one up in my pants real quick for ya!" and other such nonsense. Now on special occassions Big Jeb might want to make you eat some fancy samples (San Antonio Sand, Pennsylvania Peat, or Missouri Mud for example) so he stuffs his pockets should the need arise.
Imagine my surprise when I find out I'm partying at HIS house and instead of wearing the usual outfit of overalls, he's got on a pair of Jackie O'Nasses glasses, super-tight jeans, a Culture Club tee, and ruby red lipstick under his handlebar moustache. Further imagine the look on everyone's face when Groff and I arrive, already drunk, hootin' and hollerin'.
You guessed it; the record skips, the crickets sound, and everyone stares. Big Jeb, thirty-five years old, says, "You fags trying to wake my parents? I oughta stuff your mouths with Mexican Moss, comin' in like that." To this we apologize, the dudes in the corner pawing each other's crotch call us queers and the music starts up again; Shania Twain replaced by Franky Goes To Hollywood.
Taking a cue from the song I relax, find a seat, and drink some beer. The passage of time has little effect on me when drunk, so I'm not sure how long it was until I spoke to Big Jeb again. He brought to everyone's attention that "Under Pressure" was playing, you know the Queen/David Bowie song. As you may already be aware, I'm a bit of a David Bowie fan so I commented on how I think that song is probably one of the worst I've heard him in, to which he delivered some earth shattering news, saying "Heh. David Bowie's gay!" only to laugh a little too loud, looking around to make sure he wasn't the only one. Then he sat on Rosco, the local drag queen's lap and tongue-kissed him. That was kind of weird, I mean, there was no way of telling whose lipstick was smearing who. It was time for a piss break. On my way to the bathroom I was stopped by another party-goer who made like he was going to squirt me with a water gun. Evidently this was some sort of inside joke, which would result in me being blackballed--or in the case of this party, blueballed--by everyone there. But as I was shitfaced, I really didn't give it much thought and went my way.
More beer was drank, more time passed until finally Big Jeb's parents woke up and kicked everyone out. Although the party really wasn't that fun I still feel bad for Big Jeb; his dad grounded him in front of everyone, causing him to run to his room crying. Can you say irony?