I hope he buys a cabin.
Randy just left in all his sparkling tuxedo and club-issued ridiculous cumberbun glory, and I have to say, I feel a twinge of regret for not going. Here on the couch in some socks I checked the mail in, a free Red Stripe tee shirt and 7-hour wet hair that might or might not be trapped in a lime green banana clip.
He's going to get to make fun of people, eat some terrible steak, make fun of people some more... and meanwhile here
I am, doing nothing. Just smashing this one poor cushion into the couch frame so when I get up it looks like seven people were sitting here, all on top of each other. Randy's out there making shit happen. I'm here. Slowly smothering our couch.
Immediately following this giant fundraising monstrosity, there's traditionally a huge after-party for all the group members. A house party with fried bologna sandwiches, a giant pot of menudo, and deep-fried Twinkies. I've been able/awake/out on bail/dressed enough to make it to this party exactly
one time. It was fun, or so says the eighteen seconds of it my brain managed to download into the hard drive.
I found out this afternoon: this year, the party is being held DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY HOUSE.
So now I feel like the ten-year-old who gets permission to miss the big school math test, but then for some stupid reason isn't allowed to go to the bar that night. Total. Bullshit.
Also, my hair is starting to ache.
Man, I really wish
Clash of the Titans was on right now.
