Trick or Treat

To think, it all started with gonorrhea. Unfortunately, on Halloween I’d forgotten my spare case of antibiotics as I ventured into the night dressed up like a douchebag. Douchebag in this case is a costume, not a description. Picking relevant douche insignia I assembled a uniform for the Jersey Shore meets Staten Island meets pompous prick. Three popped collars, one headband, aviators, and a fohawk later I walked towards the subway doing my best to subdue the douche within until arriving at the party.

The first stop united me with the Ambiguously Gay Duo, a soldier, two cowboys, and some strippers (putting cat ears on your head while wearing a four inch skirt does not make you a feline it makes you a whore). Beer was consumed, unforgivable statements were made and southerners were offended…and offensive at the same time.

Like alcohol thirsty parasites, we moved to the next party after depleting the booze. It was here the crew’s limits were tested. Ace found a bottle of vermouth and proceeded to drink it, all of it, by himself. Gary meanwhile drank himself straight and proceeded to lock tongues with the big boobed Southern chick, with allegedly green eyes (I didn’t even realize she had eyes). Then an Asian cast of Star Trek walked in…funny I remember only one Mr. Sulu.

I was somewhere in double digits for beers when we ran out. Luckily my drinking compatriot, Dr. Gonzo, procured a potent bottle of scotch. Him along with some other guy dressed as a meandering hipster led me to the kitchen where we scooped cubes of ice into glasses and poured the shiny poison in after. Things were going well until the host of the party joined us.

“I’m glad you’re not being such a dick tonight.” She said to me mockingly.

“Hey! You’re the one that slapped me!” I responded looking at my fellow scotch suckers for approval. “All I did was ask if she had gonorrhea, a perfectly legitimate question considering I was sitting right next to her. You can never be too careful these days.” Need I say more?

“By the way that was his girlfriend you said that to.” She said gesturing towards unnamed hipster dresser.

I smiled proudly and reacted genuinely, “That was your girlfriend! I’m Matt nice to meet you!” I extended a hand as he disdainfully knocked it away.

“You asked my girlfriend if she had gonorrhea?” He asked accusingly.

I tried to explain the humor but he found none and stormed away to yell at his girlfriend for allowing me to ask if she had contracted VD. He returned shortly in a sour mood. Dr. Gonzo and I were innocently sipping our drinks when he asked how the host could be friends with me.

As she tried responding diplomatically with a by now rehearsed defense of my humor and skewed moral compass, I blurted out, “oh we’re more than friends amigo.” He looked at me, then at her.

“Don’t tell me you made out with this guy” he said disgustedly. That guy was me.

“I’m standing right here buddy.” Laughing, I added, “and we did much more than make out.”

Bro bag was really getting pissed now. As I laughed he asked the next logical question, “Don’t tell me you slept with this guy.”

As she tried to refrain from revealing the answer with a smile, I answered for her and assured him that I called it “fucking,” and that sleeping was for miserable, married people. I then smiled and waved at his girlfriend prompting him to go off and yell at her for this too. Probably a woman beater I thought.

Post Vermouth Ace then stumbled out the apartment and got lost in the New York City streets. Little Bo Peep took my number and said she’d call about a party next week but wouldn’t fuck me tonight. I had a lot more beer at a bar and lost my sunglasses. There was dancing on stools and a verbal assault on a Ranger Jersey. I woke up the next morning and went to report a story on the marathon…I guess I waited till the day after Halloween to wear my costume.