2002-11-04

The party was a raging success! Well, my costume was, anyway, and that's what matters. Not too many people seemed to have received the "Wedding from Hell" memo, though. One guy had a pretty, um, interesting take on the theme: he was dressed up as an inmate, with a sign on his back reading, "My dowry was a pack of smokes. My bum stings." Get it? Eh? Hooray for anal rape humour!

Towards the end of the party, I got trapped in the kitchen by some gorp having an existential crisis of some sort. He was going on and on about how Dali epitomized the Dadaist movement, and I made the mistake of telling him that, um, dude? Dali wasn't a Dadaist. He was a surrealist. The guy went on this nonsensical rant about�fuck, I'm SURE I don't know. Something about�the applied face of Dadaism�the decadence of society�blah blah blah stonercakes. He was just talking non-stop, pacing back and forth and chain-smoking. I was like, "Dude! You know what you need? A manifesto!" I hoped that would shut him up, but he kept at it. Then I was like "You know what would make this better? A black turtleneck and bongo drums!" Motherfucker still didn't clue in that I was making fun of him. Finally I tried the direct approach. "I think you've smoked a bit too much pot tonight, man." He agreed, but did NOT stop talking. He got all introspective and paranoid. You know what I love? Talking down jizz-rag potheads who've smoked themselves into an addle-brained panic. Except NOT. I finally had to leave the room to get him to shut his gawping face.