Tuesday, February 6, 2007

Not So Super Bowl

Still sick, but Super Bowl Bashing at Wayne’s pad was unavoidable, a consequence stemming from a deep-seeded addiction to watching NFL football with fun people. I was put at ease knowing Colonel protected us, making sure to be on the lookout for bozos. I brought Cinnamon along as a worthy foil, since she’s always adept at calming my nerves in complicated situations like this. She has officially earned a spot on the Female First Team All-Basher crew.
The blatant overdose of Dayquil didn’t alleviate all the pain of my sickness, didn’t really assist at all with making me less pale, even though Cinnamon was quick to come forth with encouraging words, sincerely building up my ego a bit, even though I knew, above everything, that I felt worthless. Upon waking up Sunday morning, I instantly implemented Fierdy Chen Theory, which is “It doesn’t matter how you feel, it matters how you look.”
So long hot shower, pressed button up shirt it was, semi-shave (to hide whiteness) with perfectly sculpted hair, along with the bouncy attitude and constant smile, to shield any criticism from outside forces regarding my sorry state. I kept saying loudly and persuasively, “I feel great!”
Mike D., professed die-hard New York Giants fan, showed up adorned in a Brian Urlacher jersey, a move certainly out of character, a fair-weather one at that, certainly unbecoming of the trash talk often leaving his mouth.
I forgave him after he vehemently promised me an official West Hollywood Contractor Parking Pass that will mean never having to worry about tickets or red zones or meters ever again, at least in that area. Raj also came over, and he brought a killer pot of pork and beans. We would all pay the next day. I figured correctly that pounding Captain Morgan would be beneficial, so a handle on me was to be the ticket to triumph. Wayne gladly changed course from whisky, which is often the case when Morgan is knocking on his door. He got hammered.
The Detonator had two G's riding on the game, with Colts needing a win and the combined score had to be above 55.
He lost, and I’m happy to report he didn’t jump. I was stoked to see Ridge Thorneway drowning his sorrows in an attempt to forget about the girl who cruelly stomped all over his heart, the one who effectively smashed his once appealing poise into pieces.
Raj began to pass out near the finish, a lightweight maneuver if I’ve ever seen one. He didn’t have the benefit of the Coca Cola mixer, instead opting for the freshness of Budweiser, the King of Beers.
By this point the handle was ruthlessly damaged, on its last legs, so I willingly dosed myself with a shooter to commemorate the fact I wasn’t feeling a bit sick anymore.

I then got roped into playing poker, which was real dumb on my part, probably against better judgment, and I could tell from the look Cinnamon gave me. Although the Captain Morgan numbed my ragged senses and dulled my torn to shreds throat, my history of winning at Wayne’s place is non-existent. I’ve actually had frightful nightmares about losing close hands to his father, who always finds a way to decapitate my hopes bluntly. Instead Wayne decided to take the upper hand.
Wayne dominated from the start, a behemoth unstoppable, unfeeling, and bringing down his heavy hammer without mercy. He started bullying pots by taking advantage of his high chip stack, a cold move even though I’d do the same. Luck was on his side, and so were the 5’s.
My best bet was a blind all-in, a highlight resulting in a miraculous double-up that didn’t mean a thing in the grand scheme of things. I only lost $10.
I definitely overdid it, suffered the consequences tenfold when I was awakened early Monday morning by the maddening sound of a man wielding a leaf blower. All leaf blowing offenders should be unceremoniously given a blindfold and cigarette, firing squad style. What compounded the annoyance was the obvious resurgence of the illness my excessive alcohol intake masked. I do hate myself, an emotion that really only surfaces when I pull haughty all-nighters . . . so much for getting this week off on the right foot. Tonight I have a birthday party to hit over at Liquid Kitty, and if I’m lucky, Roxie will cut my hair beforehand. That doesn't mean I'll feel better on the inside, although watching some more episodes of Moonlighting help with blurring my pointed focus.

No comments: