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Sunday, November 13, 2005

Woah. Here's to doing a show somewhat hungover and with less than six hours' sleep. Curtain up in 50 minutes!

Wherefore this sorry state? Last night after Henry IV, Cliff, Meathead, Anita, Matt and I hit the, uh, Central PA party scene. First, we had some raucous fun with the actors at the newly opened Cameron Street Cafe. Someone put Meatloaf's "I Would Do Anything for Love" on the jukebox; I don't think I had ever heard the complete twelve-minute track before.

Afterwards, we drove down to Emigsville to catch the dregs of Tony's party.


By the time we arrived at Tony's house, it was nearly two in the morning. The day before, I had remarked to Matt that I wanted to be home by two, but if you're going to party, you may as well go the whole hog, so I quickly started to polish off a bottle of Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur.

About a half-hour after we arrived, while I was playing beer pong with Scott, Tony stumbled downstairs with a couple of drunk and highly sexed women in tow. One of them, wearing a pink shirt, drunkenly slurred, "I just explored every nook and cranny of Tony's bedroom!"

"Oh, really?" I replied. "Every nook and cranny?"

"Yep!" she grinned. "I lost my sock, too!" She raised the leg of her pants triumphantly to show me her bare foot. "I have no idea where my sock is!"

This struck me as hilarious. A few minutes later, as she gyrated and frantically jiggled her buttocks to the sound of top-40 hip hop in Tony's loungeroom, the Godiva began to settle into my bloodstream, so I hollered, "Hey, that's the girl that left her sock in Tony's cranny!"

Pink Shirt was evidently not impressed. She quickly sat next to me, and shouted in my ear, "Hey, you know, I'm married, and my husband was in the room the whole time. So, it's not like that, OK? You don't understand, OK? You don't understand because you haven't been here. I've been here from the beginning. You don't get it." I couldn't stop laughing.

After a drunken game of chess with Brian (whose arse I totally kicked, muahahahaha!), I wandered into the kitchen and found her telling a story about some "cunts" who earlier in the evening had drunk from her personal supply of liquor. "Listen," she insisted, clearly outraged, "I'm a grown woman. You know, I have three kids; I know what it's like to buy my own liquor."

Without even thinking, I shot back, "What, because your kids won't buy it for you?" before bursting into further peals of laughter. Well, come on! What the fuck was I supposed to say!?

Poor Pink Shirt. She stormed out of the conversation in a huff, then marched back through the room with her
entourage of skanks, declaring, "I've been insulted! My kids have been insulted!" On the way out the door, she announced to at least three other people, including Anita, "If you want to come to a party without drama, come with me!"

Jamie, ever the diplomat, apparently tried explaining to Pink Shirt that I was from Australia, a land of vastly different customs, and that I had not yet availed myself of American party etiquette. But it was useless. Within forty minutes of arriving at the party, I had cleared it completely of skanks. Poor Tony did not engage in a ménage à trois with a married woman and her husband. No more gyrating occurred in the living room (not counting Scott's drunken crawling about on the floor). No more lesbian action took place on Tony's bed. There was no more grabbing of stuffed tight-denim-clad butts.

Just call me the Poontang Exterminator.

With no jiggling posteriors or drama to distract me, I played another game of drunken chess with Meathead, who also buckled under the heavyweight genius of my intoxicated tactics. Both he and Brian blame their losses on Tony's Lord of the Rings board and its non-conventional pieces, but the truth is that I am the Grandmaster World Drunken Chess Champion. I just haven't let on until now.

Then Meathead's stomach rebelled violently against two-thirds of a bottle of Captain Morgan. Hey, a decent yak (or five) is good for you now and then.

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