Perfect Strangers

Normally I’m pretty standoffish. If I aint mind-lubed by cheap Chardonnay, chances are, me not gonna approach you. It’s not that I’m an assho’, it’s just that, when it comes to parties, I don’t speak unless spoken to. And even then, I’m only talking the basics, like “please”, “thank you” and “fuck yer muther”. JK.  Which brings me to my story.

Last night I attended an industry party. Which industry you ask? Nunayerbidness. Let’s just say it’s a somewhere in between the logging business, and being a brain doctor. Anyway, after begrudgingly guzzling a glass of moderately priced Grigio, I caught a glimpse of a girl I’m familiar with. One who I’ve seen plenty of times at other industry parties. Because I’m saucy, I walk up to her, even though, and just for a second, I can’t really remember her name. I hug or kiss her hello, and introduce her to my friend, saying only, “this is my friend, Bill”. It turns out they’ve met each other before. How lovely. Minutes later, her name finally comes to me; it’s Gloria. “Gloria”, I say under m’breath, “so how’s working on so and so”. Whatever I said has seemingly pee’d her o’.  “That’s not where I work, that place is shit, stop fucking with me”. Fine, I think, she’s playing the role of spicy female. Next question, “So, how’s Andrea?”, I ask about her sister. “Who?”, she retorts, and shoots to her friend a look of bepuzzledation. Her friend of the same ethnicity. I can tell something is up and, honestly, I think they’re just having a run at ol’ Talvid. “ANDREA! Your fucking sister. She just had a kid!”. In case I’m not being clear enough, I trace a pregnant belly over my existing 6 pack. OF abs. They still feign confusion. “We don’t know anyone named Andrea”, says her friend, Beth. “Just who the fuck do you think we are” they both shout toward me. “Uh…aren’t you Gloria?”.  At this point, I realize that it’s not Gloria, in fact, it’s a girl I know much better than Gloria who, truthfully, only vaguely resembles her.  Instantly, I feel what can only be described as the longest hot flash a pre-menopausal manboy has ever felt. My face turned  a bright soviet red as both of these girls point and shout, “Motherfucker!  You’re racist. What? We all look alike because we’re Asian?!”. To smooth things over, I offer them both a drink from the open bar.

Sometimes people tell me I look like Bronson Pinchot. You don’t see me writing letters to the Human Rights Commish, do you?


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