Don’t Invite Me

Trust me, you’ll be better off.

It’s not that I go out of my way to be an asshole, but, I also don’t go out of my way to fight it. I had to go to a BBQ meeting sort of thing I didn’t want to go to. I know the guy who invited me pretty well. He’s sort of a self-impressed bore (hi, Charles!) and I don’t like his wife at all (I know she doesn’t read this but I know Charles – “Don’t call me Chuck!” – is such an egotistical ass he’ll have to show it to her because he’s mentioned). It was business to go. That’s all. Charles, the fucking mental light-weight, is in the position to hire people. Over the years I’ve pulled his frying ass out of the fire enough he hires me. But I’m done. The only reason I’m going is to tell him in person to drop me. I have all good intentions to drop in, give a polite ‘it’s been real’ and end as gentlemen.

But things rarely play out as I script them.

I get to his house in a bad mood. Just knowing I’m going to have to spend time in the same area code with that troglodyte of a wife makes my nose twitch. I know she won’t want to speak to me much, so that’s good, but that facade with eyes would suck the shit out of a dog if she thought it would make the dog unhappy.

A guy I like hurries up handing me a beer. How can you not like a guy like that?


“Hey! Thanks.” We continue adding a word each time to our sentences until he imparts the information he’s been dying to get out gets out. At that moment, I fall back to a single word,


You see, I’ve just been informed that, per order of the house nazi, each guest will be limited to two drinks. Not per hour, which would be sensible, for the event.

“I’ll be outta here in forty minutes.” I say walking past some not very happy campers. It’s the topic of the party. I ask who gave up their beer for me and one of the guys said they circumvented the cunt by going to a local liquor store and having drinks in various vehicles.

You see, they know she’ll catch on so, when she does, everyone knows they’ll follow the next person to leave to the vehicle and confront them.

“So we’ve already got a sacrificial vehicle ready.” The vehicle has one lone beer in it which she’ll dramatically confiscate.

“See? THIS is why I don’t like you people!” Is the phrase we’ve all agreed she’ll use as she smashes the bottle on the ground.

It’s interesting to be in a group of pretty good writers. We can play scenes out before they happen with amazing clarity whether they’re true or not.

I’m standing there, with my first beer, when this woman comes up to me.

“You seem pretty unconcerned with this draconian situation.”

Oh yeah, then there’s that thing about hanging out with writers.

“It’s no big deal. I’m not much of a drinker anyway.” She looks from my eyes to the beer in my hand. I hold it up and say, “This? It’s just water.” I pause to allow her confusion to grow. “Mixed with hops and barley. I don’t know what they call it but it’s DEEEE-licious!”

See? Obnoxious.

I’ve been there less than half an hour and I’m ready to leave. Before I tender my resignation I know I have to thank the hosts for inviting me to their lovelyish home. So I head to the bar area to where the anteater faced wife is berating her esurient husband.

“Hey! Thanks for tossing this shindig.” I shake his hand then stick it in the air for her knowing she’d refuse it. “I wouldn’t shake my hand either.”

I point at her husband. “After all, look what I just touched.” Charles heartily laughs because he’s a soul less quakebuttock. “I have to talk to you for a minute before I leave.”

“Don’t you want a drink?” One of them asks. I apologize for my lack of specificity. I’d stopped paying attention.

“No thanks.” I say just as I feel a hand on my arm. “Come on,” It was that ass-lipped twat Charles. I stop. Turn and face the shrew. I know I have to follow protocol so say,

“Do you know how to make a PMS?” She grimaces.

“What’s in it?”

“It’s basically a bloody Mary served by a bitch.”

Their faces turned white for a moment before her’s turned red. I think, although I didn’t do it with the panache I’d planned, I’ll be off their mailing list after that.

I walk through a crowd, some of whom made their way over to see what, if anything, would happen. I turn to see, for one last time, Charles the human dingleberry, getting bitched at by the subhuman lusus naturae.


One response to “Don’t Invite Me

  1. I am inviting you to EVERY ONE of my parties, where we have a *minimum* drink requirement and a delightful absence of assholes.

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