Is he posting, like, as this happens or something?
Perhaps brought on by Bank Curve Subgroup A Subassembly B?
No, he’s dictating. Tell us more!
“That martini was a real knock-out!” I say to my host. He smiles, tells me he’s glad that I’m ok, and promises that the incident was no big deal, and he will only use it against me infrequently in the future when he really wants to embarass me socially.
I reply that as a good host he is now morally obligated to come over to my house and do something embarassing so that we can have detente. He promises to throw up on my dog, or pick a fight or something at my next party so that we can have detente.
My hostess is equally gracious and friendly. I talk to the cardiologist and another urologist about football, and have the feeling that I am being tested for my mental acuity and competance vis a vis the recent incident. I get the feeling that if I answer incorrectly they are going to throw me on a stretcher.
I opine that it will probably be a New England, Philly Superbowl and that New England is stronger.
They seem to accept this, and then grill me about College bowl games. I decide to play it safe and talk about the stupidity of the computer ranking system and sense that I have passed.
My OB/Gyn friend announces that I am not allowed to drive myself home. The cardiologist back him up.
I do a quick mental calculation. I know that I am fine, and that I have had far less to drink than anybody else here.
Nevertheless the Doctors have collectively decided that it is not a good idea. Making an issue out of it would probably cause another spectacle, magnify the incident and make me look obstinate, and ungrateful.
I am actually uncomfortable about being driven home but see no choice but to acquiesce gratefully, so I do.
I joke around and recieve medical advice and act grateful and apologetic and generally feel about six inches tall.
The new year comes and I get driven home by one of the urologists, who as it turns out is perfectly responsible.
I go home and my wife is waiting for me. Uncharacteristically and shockingly she just walks over and gives me a big hug, and tells me how glad she is I’m home and ok.
Instinctively she knows that my real problem is shame and embarassment, and she expresses sympathy about how hard it must have been to face everybody afterwards and be social.
And today my friend called and spoke to my wife again, and they’ve decided to insist that I get a cardio check up.
And this is how I start the New Year. Scared, petulant, and feeling sorry for myself, and guilty about having misjudged my friends and wife.
All this time I’m just seeing it from my perspective and it’s not until I type these words that I realize that the social agenda, the embarassment and the shame I feel speaks very badly about my opinion of my good friend and my wife. Rather it speaks badly about me.
Instead of being ashamed and embarassed by the concern, I should be grateful that my friends, acquaintances and loved ones care about me so much, and demanded the right to assist and aid me and care for me.
Still though, I wish I’d managed to get that door closed. Maybe nobody would have noticed.
I guess I’ll end it with a Happy New Year and an exlamation point, or two.
Happy New Year!!
Applause!
Footnote 1: Scylla, you rock. I’m glad you’re alive and unhurt.
Footnote 2: Kurdt Kobain, please do fuck off.
Footnote 3: Ibid
Kurdt, you’re a – ACK slump THUMP!
Oh, good job. You sure did show me, linking to that! Now, fuck off until you can manage to come up with something originial(I know, that’ll be hard for you).
No can do, guy! Scylla invited me to his fopourri party! Did you get your invite?
Hello Micheal Ellis, you’re still an idiot.
No, I’d rather voice my displeasure. Just like you might voice your enjoyment of it. That’s fair, to me.
I’m sorry. I’m not seeing you on my list, so it appears you’re crashing this party and being rude to the guests.
No more fopourri for you.
Glad you’re OK, Scylla…
We’d miss you around here!
Scylla, why ya gotta be like that?
You said it was my party. That means you have put me in the role of host and yourself as guest.
I can’t have you scarfing fopourri like it was cheap beer and picking fights with the other guests, can I?
And really, the dress is casual but my God man, look at those slacks!
I dunno Scylla, you sounded lucid till you babbeled something about Philly making the super bowl.
That aside, I had my episode at work. Heart rate 212. Paramedics, sirens, stretcher — the whole bit. Not a heart attack, just a condition that resulted in blood pressure medicine and doc’s orders to go decaf from here on.
The next day when I went to the office it occured to me that if I showed up wearing nothing but my undies, my day would still be less embarrassing than the previous day.
Bubba
Got a cite for that, buttfucker?
Oh, wait, of course you don’t. So fuck right off, spanky.
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First and foremost, I am glad that you are not dead, or brain-damaged beyond your ability to communicate with the rest of us on the board; you’d be missed. A lot.
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Condolences on what cannot have been much fun in the way of parties. I personally can’t stand collapsing, fainting, passing out, or projectile vomiting while in mixed company. Unless it’s on purpose, of course.
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I’m kind of glad I took a break to watch three hours of “Twilight Zone” instead of lurking. You’d certainly have driven me nuts if I had to keep reading those staccato bursts of story instead of just streaming right down to the end, and I might well have said something ill-considered. Fortune has favored me this evening, and spared me some embarrassment.
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I don’t really know you from Adam, Scylla, but if you’re the kind of guy who’d go out and get good and sauced up on New Year’s, without the wife, while she’s at home recovering from giving birth to your most recent offspring… and then LIE to her about it, saying you’d had some kind of “attack,” then you’re what the cabdriver called the other cabdriver, bud.
Of course, I’ve never met you. I’m in no position to know that.
Your wife, on the other hand, seems to know you quite well, and promptly figured out that you wouldn’t do a thing like that.
Then again, did SHE have to listen to you tell this whole story in short, staccato text bursts?
**
I don’t know why I did it that way. I just felt like hitting the “post” button every time I came to an exciting part.
Now that I did it, I’m kind of excited. I think I figured out a way to make $.
I’ll get a sponsor and post commercial messages in between staccato bursts.
The next thing I write will be like
“…and as I took her deep into my arms and gazed into those soulful eyes, suddenly I felt the cold steel of the gun press into my back. “Freeze or your dead,” my unknown assailant said. Spinning, I struck the gun just as a shot rang out and my true live screamed in pain. And then, I saw to my horror that the worst was right in front of me…”
I’ll wait for ten minutes, and then post something about enlarging your penis, buying Viagra on line, or finding old college friends.
I’m sure Lynn won’t have any problem with it.
Are you really that clueless or is that another one of your shitty jokes?