Friggin Yelptards

So it was all a setup. I’ve been wondering whether to even blog about this. But I know people are gonna ask. So whatever. I feel kinda sick about the whole thing. But anyway, they’re the ones who look like a-holes. They showed up on time, acting all flirty on the drive up to the city, and all flirty during the show and during dinner. So I go into the men’s room at Brandy Ho’s and take the Viagra. By the time we hit the apartment in Pacific Heights I’m walking with a limp and my nose is all stuffed up and it’s all good. I get out a bottle of champagne. They go change into these sexy pajamas. We kick back on the couch. I start to make my move and suddenly they leap up, all offended, like, Oh my God, you didn’t think this was a date, did you? And they’re acting sort of mortified and amused at the same time. And then sad. Like, oh, you poor old man, you really did think this was a date, didn’t you? Then they started talking about Death in Venice and talking about this crush I have on Bike Helmet Girl who looks like she’s 14 years old and how it’s one of those mortality things where you see the end of your own life drawing closer and what you’re really in love with is youth and life but it gets transferred into sexuality, this kind of base desire, and they started calling me Aschenbach and then Catriona started reciting Yeats’s “Sailing to Byzantium,” with this stuff about old dudes still feeling sick with desire and whatever.

In other words: Yeah. Excruciating. No doubt the whole thing was recorded somehow and is gonna show up on YouTube in the next day or so. Well, I feel like an ass. Kind of. Bigger problem was that then it was one in the morning and I’ve got a raging Viagra boner and if you’ve ever taken Viagra you know it can have some side effects including some not-so-pleasant things involving your digestive tract. Add to that the effect of super-spicy Hunan food, the kind that “burns three times” as they say in Mexico (hint: the third time is the dog’s nose) and you’ll got the picture. The girls went to bed, and I spent a memorable hour in the bathroom, groaning, and staring down at Little Stevie, this evil bastard of a third leg which wouldn’t go away. Finally at about 4:30 I got back into disguise and drove down to the Tenderloin and had Stevie Junior taken care of by some “woman” who was taller than me and had bigger hands, and who had the nerve to say, as she was getting out of my car, “Dude, nobody is gonna buy that iTV thing. Seriously.” Then when I pulled my jeans back on my wallet was gone. Nice, right?

On the bright side, Bike Helmet Girl’s performance was amazing. I am even more in love with her now than I was before. Seriously. I was gonna go out back after the show and try to meet her, but the Make Out Girls insisted on leaving early. All part of the plan, I realize now. Not sure but I think they were all in cahoots on this, like it was some kind of Yelptard conspiracy to get revenge or something. I dunno. I’d like to think that Bike Helmet Girl is being sincere and really likes me as much as I like her. Christ. Jobso, get a grip. I mean, will ya listen to me? Here I am, just after getting played like a frigtard by the Make Out Girls, and I’m still hoping that Bike Helmet Girl might be sincere. Hope springs eternal I guess. So does Little Stevie, who’s still under the influence of Vitamin V and standing at attention. Worse yet, I get to the office and there’s an urgent message from Peter Oppenheimer saying we’ve got to meet with some lawyers and finance guys today. Great. I’d rather have a friggin colonoscopy than listen to those idiots.

Anyhoo. That was my big night out. Tiffany, I still have the MacBook Pro in my car. And you were great. Honestly. Amazing. You really are talented. And beautiful. I don’t care if I’m making a fool of myself. You’re the best. I mean it.

God sometimes I am such a putz.