Girl Talk

Tomorrow night, it’s just me and the girls.  That is, me, Rogue 2, and the DJ you can’t escape even if you want to–Girl Talk. He’s gotten the reach around from everyone–Pitchfork to Rolling Stone. And don’t forget Rogue 2. He gave him the back handed reach around so we could have tickets to tomorrow night’s sold out show at Johnny Brenda’s.

It’s a goddamned shame that in a moment of experimentation with non-attachment, I deleted my old blog, Pencopal’s Project. Reading some of those posts would’ve really helped our four and a half readers (hello, young dwarf)  get to know the author who goes by Rogue 2, formerly known as Pastori-i. You would’ve read about young Rogue 2, who was made to wear his mother’s bra until he’d memorized all names of the songs from Led Zeppelin IV.

Then there was the Rogue 2 who got caught blowing the tour manager from Velvet Revolver in order to score tickets to that show.  That’s right. Swallowed for Velvet Fucking Revolver. The man has no standards. Goddamned GNR ripoff.

Despite his penchant for blowing random men and cross dressing, Rogue 2 is clearly the best friend a girl could have. When I had a really shitty day this week, Rogue 2 saved the day with what’s possibly the best pep talk I’ve ever received. If it weren’t for him, by the end of the day yesterday I would’ve dissolved into a puddle of sadness.

(Aside: ginger ale and captain morgan’s tattoo spiced rum is some nasty shit. I wish someone had reminded me of that while I was mixing it.)

So here’s to Rogue 2, that crossdressing fellatio master. Cheers.

The game that has no name

It was Saturday night. A bunch of us had gathered to sip cocktails and eat brie with cranberry chutney. We ended up gulping down beer and attacking the brie like rabid animals. Not a classy bunch.

We played the game that has no name. It’s part charades, part taboo. You put a bunch of names in a basket, and you go through them in three rounds. You describe them to your team members using words, then in round two you can only say one word and must act the rest out. Round three is strictly acting. It’s usually a fun game, but if there’s a douchbag in the room, it changes the dynamic.

Saturday night, the causer of douchechills was this guy Know It All. The basket came around to me, and I pulled out a piece of paper that read ”Bayard Rustin.” I had no idea who the hell it was, so we lost the point. As soon as the bell rang, Know It All says, “I can’t believe you don’t know who Bayard Rustin is!”

“Why? Who was he?” I asked.

“Only the second most important man in the civil rights movement, behind Dr. King.”

You know, because I’m black, I should’ve known that. I guess I get the bad black person award for not knowing who Bayard Rustin is.

Fucker almost killed my buzz. Luckily, it takes much more than that.

Fun with accents

“Cemeteries. Saunas. Train platforms. Store-rooms. Art galleries. Fields. Vans. Oral sex. Anal sex. Abortions. Fat men. Thin men. Filthy, naked men that she never saw again. ”

Who knew stories about sex in hundreds of places, in hundreds of ways, could be so damn boring?