recent e-vents and blond torment

its saturday. i work on saturday.

thursday night i went to a dinner partay with boxed red wine, arguably the loveliest gal in capult.let it be known that i am he who argues- for her dinner manners are as bizarre as afghan traffic patterns. the party was hosted by a futuristic point-guard and the man in a ski-chalet sweater. amiable hosts, who provided a favorable ratio of young ladies, fantastic food, and flowing libation (which i greedily sapped in between conversation revolving around me, myself and shuttlecocks).
now, boxed red wine was initially as excited as a loon at the prospect of a full tum and pirate's rum, but she soon discovered, to her dismay that the party's members were heavily weighted to the land of the lawd. that sweet country with a monopoly on freedom and the most super beings that the remaining world emulates with unmeasured obsequiousness. the land of i. and the beloved letter w.
well, boxed red wine became nervous for she, dear reader, be from that land formerly known as great. she sensed a superiority in the air, and suddenly felt her shoes too big and clothes too chic. she gobbled her meal and slurped her wine. begged this salesman for support in an evening clearly beyond her intellectual and cultural capabilities. the conversation rose to heights unknown on the continent: the art of hip, the shuttlecock dip. the scent of virtue, the overspent gumshoe. she was helpless. like a box of wine drained of its final contents, left to sputter out final sediments and sentiments.
i attempted to make rise to the occasion, as a salesman of my stature is only expected to do, but in her anxious state she knew not how to act and unleashed words of unblogable combinations, denouncing structural society and immediately calling for an anarchic takeover in this land of poppies and blue duvet covers. she raved at the good god-fearing folks from within the purple mountain's majesty, calling for their immediate surrender to her countrymen's pre-postmodern colonial two-step. she bubbled and boiled, tossing shoe-horns and iron stokers towards the innocents. they fell in twos and threes. broadsided by the frustrations of an empire lost and another gone enron.
i fled, i'm afraid. the scene was too bloody for a mere salesman like me. i hopped in my bathroom-tile pale green 1945 volga and rocketed through capult at an ungodly 45 kph. i made it home, just, and having foregone my beloved toothbrushing ritual climbed deep under the covers and curled up tightly.

lesson learned: party + boxed red wine = big trouble in little china