LET'S REVISIT AN OLD FAVORITE...SHALL WE?

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OK, this isn't the serious post I was talking about - I'm still working on that - but a set of random circumstances led to me rereading an old post and I'm going to share it for those of you (which is actually...yeah, all of you) who haven't bothered to work back through the archives. But first, I want to bring up my new favorite word/term.

Previously, you knew my new favorite word to be "defenestrate", which means "to throw someone through a window" (thank you again, Jenny Kansas). However, this evening I was introduced to "formicophilia".

Formicophilia: to experience a state of sexual arousal by having small insects crawl over one's own genitals or the genitals of another.

Fan. Tastic.

Of course, the horribly perveted wheels in my messed-up little mind immediately started spinning and I began to think....

If you're a formicophiliac, and you get crabs...is that like the apex of your being? Could anything possibly turn you on more? Do you get that treated? It's literally a self-replicating, constant system of tiny insects crawling over your genitals. Do you just say "f*ck it", lock yourself in your room and consider the fact that you've topped out on life? I'm VERY interested to know about this. Personally, a swarm of tiny insects crawling on my penis is perhaps one of the Top Five Most Traumatizing Situations I Can Imagine (TM), but I'm dying to know if there are bug freaks out there actively trying to contract crabs in order to fill out their life's Master Plan.

If anyone knows, get back to me.

Naturally, thinking about Sexually Transmitted Diseases got me thinking about my buddies from college (If I were speaking live this is where the drummer's rim shot would come crashing in and I'd look like Johnny Carson. Heyo! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...scene.). About two years ago - back when I was funny, clever, and relevant - I wrote a post about heading down to DC for a visit with said buddies. I refound it tonight and thought I'd reprint it here for your reading pleasure. It's long but it's worth it, if not for many points, for one moment in particular.

This post contains what is, hands down, the Greatest Comeback in the History of the World (TM). That's right, it's mine - I trademarked it, even though it was spoken by someone else. It's not just that it was a great comeback - it's the structure of the conversation. It went statement, dig, comeback, and then MASSIVE comeback topper. You'll know when you see it. And you'll agree. I want to make sure that everyone knows that the speed with which this conversation was conducted was lightning quick, an impressive feat because neither of the parties involved were very sober nor are they very intelligent.

Enjoy (Original Post Date: 21 January 2004):

THE NATION'S CAPITAL THREATENS TO END MY LIFE FUNCTIONS

I don't get to drink much anymore, so this Saturday's trip down to visit some buddies in D.C. was a nice change of pace.

The stage was set thusly: my buddy Loftus lives with our buddy Adam and my two former roommates Kyle and Louie. Kyle's girlfriend Ni...er, Karyn is basically the fifth roommate and house mascot in Arlington, VA (NOTE: I didn't notice at the time I wrote this - and no, I did not just intend for that to rhyme - that this last comment comes off as a dig against Karyn. It's not at all - you know I love you Karyn :) Back to the reproduced post.). Add to the mix that one Steven Perdue, Oil Magnate and General Ruby Burgoyne, Electrician are down for the weekend and, well...here we go...

--Ruby calls me as I hit I-95 on the way down. He informs me they will wait for me and that we are going to a strip club. Joy.

--I arrive to pleasantries and good cheer. Louie does not want to attend the strip club outing and Kyle and Adam are involved in a day-long Texas Hold 'Em tourney down the street. Ruby and Steve have looked up the strippers for Camelot on the Internet. I walk downstairs to find them spooning on Loftus's bed watching Good Will Hunting. Spooning. Ben and Matt would be proud.

By the way, Loftus is toiling at work on a Saturday after being out until roughly 3 AM the night before, hammered, watching an 80's cover band called Leg Warmer. Reports detail that Mr. Loftus was less than three-deep from the stage at all times, pumping his fists and singing along to every song all whilst exclaiming to all around, "THIS IS MY SH*T!!!!!" As my buddy Craig would note, Loftus is this morning likely performing his duties in an extreme haze, still thinking about Bananarama.

--Perdue, Ruby and I decide that the best way to get downtown to Camelot is by Metro. Heading for the subway, we park in a garage in Stafford Plaza. We ask a desk attendant in the building how to get to the Metro. He mumbles something in an non-English dialect and points to our left. We walk to our left. Two bathrooms and an Employee's Only closet. We head back, asking for the Metro. He grumbles louder and more unintelligibly and points us back. We go back. Two bathrooms, Employee's Only closet. We look at each other. Head back, ask for Metro. He gets up, physically leads us around the corner, where we FINALLY see...

Two bathrooms and a motherf*cking Employee's Only closet.

I'm laughing. Perdue is thinking. Ruby doesn't know where he is. After a moment of standing we walk back and Ruby says, "Look, there's nothing there, we just need to get to the Metro Station." The guy fold his hands and says, in perfectly broken English, "I apologize, I thought you said bathroom. Second Floor to left." Thanks.

Arriving at the station, Perdue and Ruby decide to share a card. Perdue puts his card through first, successfully. Ruby tries to follow him. Bupkus. Nada. See Station Manager. Remember this. They let Ruby through.

The train ride is filled with discussion about where we are going. We are to take the Orange Line from Ballston to Metro Center, where we pick up the Red Line and head to DuPont Circle. Easy. Ruby has it written down. Perdue has it in his head that there is no such thing as Metro Center, that every stop is a Metro Center. He convinces Ruby. For twenty minutes they ask back and forth, "Are we on the right train? Metro Center isn't even a stop. That was the metro center. Where are we going?" To break the monotony, Perdue offers Ruby $500 to drink an entire cup of his chew spit. Ruby refuses. This is the first thing in history I have ever seen to disgust Ruby.

--We arrive in Metro Center. Perdue says nothing. Ruby must see the Station Manager again. On the train to DuPont, Ruby tells us he'd like to fly on the President's Private Jet, Air One. Somewhere, Nelly's ears are burning for the all the wrong reasons.

--Exiting at DuPont Circle, I get to ride the tallest escalator I have ever seen. Upon hitting the street, we stand turning on the heels of our shoes for two minutes figuring out which way M Street is. Luckily, we begin walking the right direction, though Ruby is "suspicious" the entire time.

--We arrive at Camelot. There are a few things at work here.

First, I am sober. Going to a strip club sober is tough for me because I find the whole thing extremely funny. You can walk into any bar in the world and see bottles, beer, people, etc. But walking into a Gentleman's Establishment and seeing all that plus boobies...well, I think it's hysterical. Therefore, the second I enter one I have a big, goofy smile on my face, and immediately people think I'm some kind of pervert. They're not wrong, but I just don't want them thinking that in the first five minutes.

Second, it wasn't even bright daylight outside, but the inside of this place is f*cking DARK. I can't see a thing as I'm walking in and I'm banging into chairs all over the place. The bouncer must have sensed this and sat us as far away from The Pole as possible.

I have to say that I as wildly impressed by Camelot. For a Saturday afternoon in the dead of winter all of the performers were quite attractive, and what more can you ask for? Also wonderful was the fact that, while some of the ladies had rather robust mammary areas, not a single one had even a drop of Silicon in them. Lovely. And somehow, I'm keeping a (moderately) straight face. All is well. I am, however, pounding drinks. I'm on Mixed Drink One and Beer Two before Perdue and Ruby finish their first drink. Our waitress, Hot Jamie, keeps making sarcastic comments when I order such as, "Oh, did I forget to bring your drink last time?" Nice try, not going to help your tip. But let me state that the fact you are waitressing in your underpants will.

At least one stripper and the old chick behind the bar comment about how cute Ruby and his hair are, both asking if he's even old enough to be in the place. Ruby is 25 and the eldest of us all. He takes it in stride.

After each dance, if you haven't approached The Pole while they are dancing to offer a tip, they come to your table expecting to get one. This is fine. I just wanted to note that, when you first get there, you feel awkward and sheepish. You calmly slide your dollar in their garter belt and say only a quick thank you. Perdue can't even look them in their faces. He's actually just waving the dollar in the air and focusing on the cushion behind him. And if they make eye contact with you from the stage? F*cking forget it.

Then, as the day progresses and the drinks start flowing, your comments get better and better. Here are some of the ones I threw out personally, feeling the buzz:

"That was technically perfect."
"You were the best dancer of the group."
"Thanks for dancing to Coldplay, here's two." (EDITOR'S NOTE: You know you are in alcohol-related trouble when you start announcing how much you are tipping the strippers.)
"You were our favorite."
"Thank you for the entertainment." (Christ help me.)
"I enjoyed the shaking." (This one made me really afraid I was going to be thrown out by my neck.)

From Ruby:

"I liked that thing you did with your ass."

All in all, we spent about four hours and a hundred and fifty bucks there altogether. We get in touch with Loftus and we are headed to The ESPN Zone to meet him.

--On the cab ride to ESPN, Ruby calls his girlfriend. At the end of a conversation that was way too long, he gets roped into the "I love you". Guess who we made fun of the for the last five minutes? Nothing like watching one of your buddies squirm, especially when you're loaded.

--At ESPN Zone we concentrate on beer, Golf, Football, and Basketball. I'm not going to talk much about basketball, but you can figure that, since I'm the worst basketball player in history and I'm stupid drunk, I didn't do too well. I did establish the second-highest score of the day in football, however.

--Eating dinner at said Zone, Loftus says something clever. Ruby responds with, "Oh good one, that was a Widdly Tiddle." With Ruby you're never quite sure, but we think he was going for a "Witty Tidbit". Whatever he intended this becomes my official vote for our Fantasy Football Trophy: The Widdly Tiddle Cup. Mark it down.

--On the Metro back to the car, Ruby once again must see the Station Manager. She asks, "Are you trying to use the same Metro Card?" Ruby replies, "Yeah, but the damn thing doesn't work, and I've been having to see the Station Manager all day." She informs Ruby you can't use the same gate the person you are sharing with just used to come through. No sooner does she tell him this than he tries again to use the same gate. Later, as the train is approaching and we are waiting to board, Ruby nearly falls into the track and Loftus has to pull him back.

--During beer pong an hour or so later, Ruby and Perdue escalate their Your Mom Verbal Battle (TM).

(EDITOR'S NOTE: WARNING. The following exchange contains graphic, awful language and mental images. Please be warned. Seriously. This is a very serious warning.)

RUBY(makes a cup): Oooh, slippery when wet.
PERDUE: Yeah, your mom was pretty slippery when I f*cked her last night.
RUBY: That's because my dad's big c*ck stretched out her p*ssy for you.
PERDUE: I wasn't f*cking her p*ssy.

Gold.

--Loftus, Ruby, Perdue and myself head to a bar in Georgetown. Georgetown is beautiful, and a Georgetown bar can only rightfully be compared to what you might expect at a Hahvad Bah, complete with equations on the walls and sh*t. Every guy--repeat: EVERY GUY--was dressed in a sweater with a button-down underneath. Rock and Roll.

We head upstairs, where two things happen. First, I run into a friend of my ex-girlfriend. Kristina is a cool girl and lives in D.C. now, and we had a nice conversation. But I must explain the conversation we had. Here is an excerpt of our discussion:

K: So, I was told to go to your website and I did.
G: Great! What did you think.
K: Well, I want to know, do you really think you're smarter than everyone?
G: Yes.
K: Really? Because you went to JMU, and we all went to JMU, and you think you're smarter than people who went to JMU?

(EDITOR'S NOTE: At this point I'm only interested in avoiding a situation. I'm drunk, she's drunk, no reason to start anything when it's been such a good day.)

G: Let's just say I think I'm a better thinker and better able to express myself than others.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Then she pisses me off.)

K: OK, because I was going to say, you misspell a lot of words.
G: Really? Like which ones?
K: Um, like...awkward.
G: A-W-K-W-A-R-D.
K: No, it's A-C-K-W-A-R-D.
G: Eh...I think you're wrong.
K: No I'm not.
G: OK, well you go spellcheck that Monday and get back to me OK. (And I love this...)Maybe you're right.

I change the subject and eventually we decide to go find our friends. People, I want to bring up a point. I know English. I don't misspell words, especially with the aid of spellcheck. My grammar is stellar. Every once in a while, I mistype a word, which is quite different. The lesson: don't come up to me anywhere at any time and criticize my work on a fact of which you are quite wrong. And people wonder why I think I'm smarter than most? Jesus.

A-W-K-W-A-R-D. Kristina, it was very nice talking to you, but that's how you spell it.

Later in the night, I am walking to the bathroom when I get bumped into an adorable little Asian girl. I turn around and put up my hand, and say, "Sorry about that." She's double-fisting, probably not thinking rightly, and she hip-checks me with surprising force. I look back, and she realizes what she's done. She flees, absolutely flees, and hides behind one of her friends who is laughing hysterically. On my way back, I see her again and walk up. She looks frightened. I apologize again, letting her know that someone had pushed me into her. Her friend speaks up in her defense, saying she is drunk and didn't mean it. I assure them that I'm not mad in the slightest, I just wanted her to know I didn't intend to jack her in the first place. So the adorable little Asian girl comes up to me and launches into a diatribe that went something like...

"Well, OK, if you say that it happened accidentally, then I believe you, but you still shouldn't bump into girls, I mean if you're a guy you're supposed to keep your balance and not do that, but it's OK, I mean as long as it was an accident..."

Her cell phone rings, and she holds it up.

Now I very, very rarely ever get to say anything clever. Usually I think about things I should have said afterward in a George Costanza-ish way. But this night, I finally had my glory. With Ruby and Perdue listening to the proceedings two feet away, and this girl's friends watching from just as close, I finally get my shot.

With everyone watching, she raises up her phone, and I say:

"No no, that's OK, I don't want your number."

I must have smiled as wide as the Mississippi. Perdue and Ruby lose it. Her friends lose it. She is speechless in a, "No, I wasn't, I mean I didn't..." manner as I walk away. For that ephemeral moment in time, I feel like a winner. It lasts for no more than four seconds, but still dammit, that's something.

--The night is capped off by myself and a sober Louie driving to the Silver Diner, one of my favorites. Everyone is drunk and ordering either breakfast or burgers. When I order the meatloaf, which is spectacular, the waiter looks at me like I have five heads. I later return to the house and pass out on a semi-damp couch.

You just don't get days like that very often.

Everyone have a Widdly Tiddle.