A Time and Place for Sobriety

You're at a crowded house party. It smells like plastic cups and flat beer in the rug. A group of legs are at the booze counter cracking surprisingly subtle labia jokes. You're definitely going to want to join in and knock their socks off, remind them why they date ugly guys on occasion. If you're sober, it's going to be a train wreck. I'm sure you have wild peyote visions of strolling over to their camp like a care-free Don Johnson, looking to shoot the breeze and share some bubble-gum, but that balloon's going to pop as soon as you arrive. Instead of delighting them with a festive greeting or a cozy pinch on the bottom, odds are you're going to take a few cautious steps in their direction, hover about five feet from their hilarious fun station, then b-line it to the ginger ale counter. Before you know it, you've got shaky Parkinson's hands, and your plastic cup is filled all the way to the tippy-top with ginger ale.

Your choices have been rash and foolish thus far. You lost your courage, you needed to look busy, so you decided to lean against the refrigerator, alone. You cautiously nurse your topped-up cup of Schweppes like your grandfather. You might as well recline in the nearest lazyboy with a bowl of pepper mints on your lap, and doze off to the Jays game while a dribble of peepee slowly emerges through the crotch of your slacks.

Luckily, the hilarious babes are not familiar with your grandfather's late afternoon soda-drinking habits, so your hasty actions have only made you appear incredibly anxious to enjoy a tall glass of refreshing ginger ale.

After a few moments, you get overzealous, lean in, and say something unbearably jokey. For example, "I couldn't help but overhear you ladies discussing labias earlier, and I thought I'd let you know that I think vaginas are the most hilaaaaarious little creatures. Yes?" The silence strikes hard and fast, like a horny pedophilic lightning bolt. It has eyes, and it's hungry to rape all of your reputable qualities. The babes are looking at you with the squinty, confused eyes they usually reserve for tough spots in compound math equations. Quick man, recover. Remember funny? Be it, be the funny. Be it now. Fonzie's "Heeeeey," drops out of your mouth. More silence, more puzzled babe faces. It's all over, and you weren't able to spare yourself a shred of dignity, because your retreat to the cheese and cracker table included an uninspired Bill Cosby shuffle.