• Memoirs of an Evil Genius •
Conquering the World, One Martini at a Time

• Bon Voyage, Vacation! Have a Good Heather! •
10:50 p.m., 2003-07-01

Okay, this is kind of a nostalgia entry. See, I wrote it this afternoon, but I couldn't post it because the HR manager walked in on me and gave me this whole conspiratorial spiel about how I should be careful, becuase if Sophie caught me, she'd kill me dead. Sadly, during the time that she was giving me this advice, my lunch hour expired and I no longer had a valid excuse to be puttering around online anyway. So I wrote it this afternoon, and I'm posting it now. And, without further ado...

It’s a Monday morning, and technically, I shouldn’t be writing this. Technically, I should be working. Thing is, I kind of took care of a whole lot of stuff already, and I think I’ve earned a short respite. After all, the only thing I really should be doing right now is preparing for one of the big meetings I have coming up this afternoon, but the truth about that is that…well, it’s kind of like sweeping the beach. As I mentioned to Miss Jessica this weekend, sending me into these meetings is kind of like sending a guy off to war armed with an air gun. Pointless, and ultimately tragic.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. There was much revelry this past weekend, as we celebrated Heather’s imminent vacation to Europe. Many an Irish Car got bombed, and, frankly, so did most of us at the bar. Admittedly, my memory of Saturday evening is slightly fuzzy, but I distinctly recall about eight separate drinks and/or shots that made their way past my tonsils and eventually into my bloodstream. That’s a new personal record! Also, I was not so drunk that I didn’t realize when the Asstender screwed me over on a couple Malibu-and-Pineapples, and…wait, then, make that nine drinks.

You know, that’s the second time I’ve been screwed over by a bartender there! Last time they put extra drinks on my tab, which I caught (although they ended up sneaking an extra $20 onto my tab anyway, which I didn’t find out about until I got my bill). This time, the Asstender overcharged me for these drinks that were about 90% pineapple and 10% Malibu. Although I got over the disappointment by doing a Blow Job for Crystal with Heather (see below for more information regarding Blow Jobs for Crystal), and then the Hot Bartender made me a Long Island that knocked me down and had its way with me. So I dealt with the pain.

Then May Day and I crawled home and gorged ourselves on craptacular pizza. But it was a good time had by all, I’d say. Becca talked to my drunk ass for a good fifteen minutes without making me feel like she was putting up with my alcohol-sodden ramblings (which she graciously was), and I met quite a few new people -- most of whose names I remember, some of whom I introduced myself to several times in the same conversation. I also recall some making out that happened. Sadly, none of it went anywhere. Although Heather has promised to make sweet love to me when she returns from her European vacation.

Sunday morning, of course, was another story, but it was well worth it.

The Legend Of Blow Jobs For Crystal

Essentially, through some sinister design, we decided that Michelle Pfeiffer’s brilliant character from the seminal musical masterpiece Grease 2 had a drug dependency and an illegitimate six-year-old daughter named Crystal. There’s more to this story, but I can’t relate it without going to Hell, so let’s just leave it at that. The point is that, whenever you are lacking for something to drink or something to drink to, choose the trashiest shot you can think of (for instance, the Blow Job), and down it for Crystal.

No Quiz, Because I Don't Have Time To Find One.

Shit, that's pathetic.

Someone Got Here By Searching For: fighting the yakuza And: I saw josh jackson [Hey, me too! Oh wait.] I'm Watching: Okay, I watched the tail end of Paradise Hotel tonight, and I feel filthy and unclean. I'm Listening To: Liz Phair's new CD, and this song is dirty. I'm not even going to tell you what it's about, because it's even filthier and uncleaner than I am for watching Paradise Hotel.

© 2005 by Dr. No, all rights reserved; you break it, you buy it.

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