For as long as I can remember, I've made it a policy not to go out on New Year's Eve. The parties I get invited to generally don't interest me, and I'm more than content sitting on my sofa switching between the Honeymooners and Twilight Zone marathons. This year was no exception. I was camping out on the old sofa, remote in one hand, bowl in the other, when at around 11 pm, my friend called.
"Dude, you gotta come out. There are some smoking honeys here," he said. I overlooked the fact that he referred to women as "honeys," knowing he's just a clueless white boy who grew up on too much hip-hop, and I responded with a simple, "No, thanks." But the Caucasian Tupac insisted I meet up with him saying, "No, seriously. You GOTTA come, kid. This place is crawling with s-e-e-e-rious ass."
I sighed, and since the party was within walking distance, I decided to make an appearance for the hell of it. My interpretation of what my friend calls "serious ass" is more along the lines of "looks like ass" since he's one of those guys who thinks too much makeup and a pair of big tits makes a chick hot. But I figured Rod Serling and Ralph Kramden would still be there when I got back, so off I went.
I got to the party, and there were at best two not bad, but nothing special looking single women. In addition to my friend's already questionable taste, his beer goggles were on, and anything with two X chromosomes looked good to him. I wasn't pleased that I'd left the warm comfort of my apartment for a party with such poor prospects, but I decided to make the best of it. I gave myself an hour. After that, I would go home.
I started speaking with one of the "not bad, but nothing special looking single women" mentioned above, and we seemed to develop a bit of a rapport. She seemed intelligent, and interesting, and was laughing at my jokes so by the time my self imposed curfew came around, I decided to ask for her number. When I did, she said, "Sorry, I have a girlfriend." I'm used to being blown off with the "I have a boyfriend line," but this was an interesting variation on the theme. I wished her a happy new year, and told her it was nice meeting her.
As I tried making my way out of the party, my friend blocked the exit. "Where you going? You just got here?," he said.
"Home," I replied. "I'm done."
"But what about the cutie you were catchin' a rap with?"
"She's a lesbian," I said.
He started laughing so hard I thought he'd need a change of underwear. "She told you she's a carpet muncher? That's fuckin' hilarious."
"She said she has a girlfriend," I responded.
"You got so fuckin' blown off, man" said the slobbering drunken shithead with such pleasure you'd think he was somehow financially gaining from my rejection. "She doesn't have a girlfriend. I know her since college. She's totally straight."
"So she blew me off," I said. "I'll talk to you later. And make sure they let you drive home. Don't let anyone tell you you're not okay to drive," I continued.
"Ah, fuck you, man. Happy New Year," he responded, as he gave me one of those uncomfortable, "I love you, man," drunken guy hugs. I pushed him off of me before his inevitable vomiting could ruin my nice shirt, and I left.
When I got home, I caught an episode of that Snoop Dogg show I had on the DVR, in which Snoop's Uncle Junebug offered some advice about women that was very apropos given what had happened to me at the party. He stated oh so eloquently not to let a "woman pee in yo' face, and call it sweet milk," which is officially my new mantra for 2008.
The pretend lesbian had indeed peed in my face and called it sweet milk. Why she felt the need to go that extra mile in rejecting me I'm not sure, but next New Year's Eve, my phone will be shut off, and my face will be pee free.