No Fables

Last weekend bordered on amazing, built from the motivation that I could certainly try to have more fun than Ray Argyle. In order to make my wishes come to vivid fruition, I enlisted the candid insights of Holly Paige. I was in rare form, cheering the Lakers while adorned in finagled boa and The Hat’s lost hat.

Holly, a sight for sore eyes since her bold move to D.C., confided in me that the many ills of the world which pollute psyches are related to not having fun, or something like that. I don't really recall any context because, of course, around that time I became blackout drunk. That was the same evening The Wolf finally showed me how he really felt about my energetic presidential campaign.

I was unhindered in pushing boundaries, so I took my first attempt of making a cheers while taking a photo.

I think blackout drunk never felt better. Earlier in the night I was with Roxie sporting wide red eyes.

We reminisced about the glory we’ve shared over the years, even managing to finally get a good laugh about one of the worst nights ever, the debacle at L.A.X., the time when all futures were determined at random with spite.

Peacock, who has since gone into hiding, was my last picture taken inside the venue, which also assisted the security detail in identifying me moments later.

As an avid fan of aimless prancing, ten minutes of mixing it up on the dance floor is far from satisfying.

We never made it out to see Hyper Crush, choosing instead to be faced with ludicrous cab debauchery, mainly their right to refuse service to anyone. The peanut gallery of photographers found humor in what was otherwise a rather dire stamp on an evening filled with untapped potential.

While some haters can find amusement in another group's peril, that night proved, once again, that some forms of attempted Bashing can fail miserably. Upon contemplating the peaks and valleys of which fun can often hinge on, I called in support from Orange County in the form of Sylvester Cunningham, whose affinity for Captain Morgan instantly catapulted him into the upper echelon of Bashing lore.

Known to all close friends as Sly, he’s waged battles on many fronts, proudly representing what’s in all our best interests. Like most Bashers celebrated as a part of The Inner Circle, he seems to have his way with the ladies.

I was graced with his acquaintance through my lovely First Lady Scarlett O’Connell.

Apart from being a member of the American Society for Enology and Viticulture, Sly is a founding father of the Chawhee Party Klan, a group of Bashers whose influence has spread cancerously throughout the United States. Like true warriors, we’ve been to Del’s Saloon for breakfast in the past.

That particular day we went to Venice Beach to marvel at the ridiculous spectacle known as professional wrestling, a "sport" lunatics commonly believe to be real.

Since I was going to Del's Saloon for two nights in a row, I wanted to roll incognito to our meeting, low key, not to be noticed by anyone in particular, just simply blending in.

I didn’t expect that our reunion would also feature the elusive Dante, a sighting that initially scared the bejesus out of Amaury Guerrero.

The trouble caused from the cameo couldn’t be more disturbing. My already high level of drinking ability instantly became elevated while my speech became more incoherent than normal. Thankfully, Scarlett was there to temper the proceedings, although not very much.

Adding insult to injury, Priscilla Centinela, with her Long Island iced teas, egged us on to Bash harder.

Glasses were raised in triumph, for it’s a rarity that we managed to all be in the same room together.

The Bashers were justly reunited, all in the name of fun, although Ray still laughs at all of us. The next day I felt like a million dollars.