Ungh. I just got back from a party at my the former residence of my friend Blake and his roommate... um, it's a pseudonym so let's just call him Snagglepuss. They were throwing one last bash at a pad that has seen it's share of parties. Some good, some bad and, on this particular night, 86% ugly. It was what I have heard described as a sausage party. My friend Blake seemed vexed by the fact that all the attractive single women apparently had to stay home and wash their hair tonight.
Fortunately for me I had the sense to invite my friends Giggles, Hammer and his delightful g.f. Carlie to the party so I was assured to have some people to talk to. Although I thank Hammer for graciously putting his mouth in park after inadvertently rambling on for 25 minutes. Oh and don't eat anything called a Margarita cookie.
Perhaps I should have been wary since this apartment is the same place that the infamous and horrible bachelor party experience took place. To be fair there were a hanful of cool chicks in attendance but they were either friends of mine or girlfriends of friends or already spoken for. I promise not to use the word "friends" again in this post. It was as if somebody opened a can of dog food and these are the "women" who caught the scent of the beefy goodness.
It's actually impressive to be able to throw a party in L.A. and not have at least a handful of attractive single women a.k.a. crazy, anorexic actress/waitress types show up by sheer accident.
Their new apartment is supposed to be a nice step up in neighborhood and style. Perhaps that will provide the sexual catnip recipe that these two bachelor boys need to dissuade the woofers and attract the sex kittens.
I stuck around with my friends just having a good chat and drinking the free drinks. My recipe is 1 part ice to 3 parts hard alcohol. As things quickly wound down, there were about 8 people still at the party when Snagglepuss singled me out and said somewhat playfully "Okay, there Kranki, I'm kicking you out." What? Dude, excuse me for sticking it out at your lame ass neurotic 34 year old virgin man convention. I thought I was doing a good dead. It's always nice when you get playfully but seriously thrown out by your "friend" in front of your other friends. It was nearly enough to make me want to take a shit in the crisper*.
Two men in their thirties with good incomes should not be sharing an apartment unless they are gay, junkies, heterosexually co-dependent or man children. I love you Blake, I do. However, you might as well be sharing an apartment with your uptight aunt Erma. This viscous cycle of sterile, bachelor living is just further proof that I should never again share an apartment with any male ever. All my best roommates have been women. Even in a post-apocalyptic future in which I lived with my mom, I'd at least get to enjoy gourmet meals every day. Right up until the moment I finished my curried chicken salad, wiped the sauce from my mouth and slit my wrists** in the bathtub.
* The vegetable bin of a refrigerator. I don't know what you foreigners call things yet.
**Although for the serious suicide-minded individual, it's far more effective to slice into your artery just above the elbow. But don't even consider that until you've maxed out every credit card you could own and visited at least 6 of the seven wonders of the world.
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14 comments:
So you're saying it's no Melrose Place?
So when are you flying again? What's your itenary like?
1. A Crisper is a crisper here too.
2. You used Friend a couple of times after you said you wouldn't.
3. So does this mean you are on the prowl again? Good for you.
4. Substitute Slit for Slip. Slipping your wrists will just give you RSI.
Are you on the prowl?
Clokey: That's not good, you know.
In Clokeeeey's defense, I think he just meant that it's good that Kranki's moving on; not that it's necessarily good that he's breaking his marital vows if a chance for reconciliation with Penny is still on the cards ... if that's even what Quirkie's suggesting.
Enough of this. I was going to mention points 1, 2 and 4 that Clokes covered as well, so he saved me the trouble and now I don't even have to submit this comment. So I promise I won't.*
* This promise is as valid as Kranki's promise that he won't say the word "friends" again in the above post.
Anything I do while I am drunk in front of a coumputer.... Is okay beacause... Hey look a Blue Jay. Where were we?
Oh yeah no, actually. I'm not back in the game especially because there were no pieces that I felt any desire to move or even touch.
But I am bracing myself the terrifying possibility.
Oh and Chai. I'm swimming, not flying. I'm done doing things the easy way.
Don't worry, I'll let you know when it's time to buy the tattered and world-weary American boy strong drinks.
I fly out of California on the 24th of November...my time.
Hey! He's even giving dates like an Aussie!! He said it correctly!
He said "the 24th of November", instead of "November 24th" (which is the backwards way Americans say it).
You're going to fit right at home here, buddy. We might even advise you not to say the word 'fanny' while you're visiting, seeing as it means something very different here to what it means over there.
But we're still deciding on that one.
Quirkie, sorry, having been in a similar spot, just getting out is an achievement. He needs the support.
Not long to go. On your last day here, look me up. I'll take you to the airport and make sure you get onto your flight home safely. :-)
Clokey: no, me sorry. But before I thoroughly repent, let me persist in offering further marriage advice to complete strangers.
OK, or maybe not.
Oh, really, it's late over here, and I can't help but feel a wee bit maternal about the young American going feral when he hasn't told us if there's any chance of reconciliation with the missus.
Hint hint.
Thanks for the maternal instincts. It's nice to have people... Oops. I almsot said "rooting for me." That would not be what I meant.
Um... I mean, thanks for your caring. Every little bit helps.
As for the hint you wanted. Drop me an email at krankiboy@yahoo.com I don't have a simple answer to that question.
I didn't mean to drop in on the coversation about Kranki's marital status, merely to add that the "crisper" is known as the "rotter" at our place, as that is what generally happens there.
I think my entire bottom shelf and crisper in my fridge is a rotter.
Nothing as lovely as 3 month old cucumber. Are cantalopes supposed to have pink fur on the outside?
Only when you take them to the Mardi Gras.
(And we know you take them to the Mardi Gras.)
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