I hate to sound like a self-congratulatory asshole, but I stuck to my guns tonight. My house had a big party tonight and I was detailed on security. By the end of the night I have to turn out a group of 3 fratty giant and their lady friend. They keep insisting that they're on their way out or have a host, but they keep lingering and making up names of people they know.
I kept hounding them about if they had a host, and if so, could they procure that person? Well, these two guys, about as fratty as Natty and wide as a pine tree kept lingering after every time that I ask that they leave. Eventually they link up with their 3rd fratty friend. They linger together, looking over their shoulders to see if I'm still watching them. I ask that they leave. They drift around and collect their lady friend. I ask that they leave. Their lady friend claims to know someone. I ask if they have a host. Lady friend offers to find her host and disappears into the crowd. The three fratty giants stay with me by the door. They keep shit-talking ("this party's lame anyway") but I just watch their reflections in the glass, unmoving. Lady friend returns.
"We didn't want to stay anyway," Lady Friend says is a huff, filled with as much indignation as a 5-year old deprived of his birthright to lollipops.
I shake hands with each of the fratty guys. They are each a head taller than me.
"I don't like you, William Wallace," the third one says.
It is a 90s-themed party. I am dressed as Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Half my face is painted blue and I am wearing nothing but a kilt. I hold a plastic sword in my hand. My face is impassive and simply stares at them as they leave.
Sketchy-ass mofos stay outta my house!
2 comments:
I actually saluted the computer screen after reading this. What else is to be done? Congratulatory cyber fist pound?
Ramon paraphrased the story for me, but left out your costume. Now knowing that you were in full Braveheart get-up, I find the story much more satisfying!
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