jihad
last thursday i watched the draft from work, which was disappointing since instead of being surrounded by a mike(3 picks, none of them good) and eric (who wont have a pick again until kevin mchale gives up the coogi), i was surrounded by the liberal media elite, who were watching a mets game.
in any case, post draft i was feeling the desire to drink a beer, burn a bit of shrubbery, and google andre iguodala. instead i recieved a telephone call from a certain iranian seniors reporter with whom many of you may be aquainted.
she evidently had two or three cosmos in her and was demanding an audience.
feeling as though her presence would not be conducive to my previously discussed plans, i asked her for a rain check and told her i was going home.
which is when she said (forgive me mr. ashcroft) fine, im iranian and i know where you live. i'll blow up your house.
which is when i said okay you can come over.
but i still harbored hopes of a quiet evening, so i hedged and said okay, lets meet for a drink but after that im going home, and she said deal.
so we met and had a drink (two if you count the shot of tequila that came with my tecate), but she was having none of my plan.
Our conversation went something like this:
me: im going home
her: okay im coming too
me: no way
her: yes way
me: i told you you werent allowed to get attached to me
her: i dont care what you told me
me: your coming over is just gonna make things worse
her: i dont care, i want to come over
and on and on.
at some point i decided that there was no way she was coming over--i just wasn't going to lose the argument.
im not sure why it became so important an argument to win, but it somehow became like a life or death struggle. i felt like i was standing up for my constitutional right to privacy aginst the forces of a girl who thought that just because i slept with her she was as entitled to my time as i was.
more than likely i was just being contrary.
did i mention that her mom died the week before?
and that she got fired the week before that?
wow, i really am a terrible person.
anyway back to the story. the argument continued into the streets.
i tried to walk away. she followed me home. so i walked towards the projects. i reasoned that her instinct for self-preservation would kick in and override her instinct to get laid. it didn't. she kept following. by now it was like 330, and i was contemplating walking IN to the projects, but then my own self-preservation instinct kicked in.
we had one more argument, on D, in front of a gang of puerto rican crack dealers who must have thought it was hilarious.
me: go the fuck home!
her: no
me: dont you have any self-respect?
her: no
me: jesus you are fucking nuts.
the story ends with her getting in a cab. i should have felt guilty i guess, but i was kind of elated instead. i slept like a baby.
did i mention that i have a mustache?
in any case, post draft i was feeling the desire to drink a beer, burn a bit of shrubbery, and google andre iguodala. instead i recieved a telephone call from a certain iranian seniors reporter with whom many of you may be aquainted.
she evidently had two or three cosmos in her and was demanding an audience.
feeling as though her presence would not be conducive to my previously discussed plans, i asked her for a rain check and told her i was going home.
which is when she said (forgive me mr. ashcroft) fine, im iranian and i know where you live. i'll blow up your house.
which is when i said okay you can come over.
but i still harbored hopes of a quiet evening, so i hedged and said okay, lets meet for a drink but after that im going home, and she said deal.
so we met and had a drink (two if you count the shot of tequila that came with my tecate), but she was having none of my plan.
Our conversation went something like this:
me: im going home
her: okay im coming too
me: no way
her: yes way
me: i told you you werent allowed to get attached to me
her: i dont care what you told me
me: your coming over is just gonna make things worse
her: i dont care, i want to come over
and on and on.
at some point i decided that there was no way she was coming over--i just wasn't going to lose the argument.
im not sure why it became so important an argument to win, but it somehow became like a life or death struggle. i felt like i was standing up for my constitutional right to privacy aginst the forces of a girl who thought that just because i slept with her she was as entitled to my time as i was.
more than likely i was just being contrary.
did i mention that her mom died the week before?
and that she got fired the week before that?
wow, i really am a terrible person.
anyway back to the story. the argument continued into the streets.
i tried to walk away. she followed me home. so i walked towards the projects. i reasoned that her instinct for self-preservation would kick in and override her instinct to get laid. it didn't. she kept following. by now it was like 330, and i was contemplating walking IN to the projects, but then my own self-preservation instinct kicked in.
we had one more argument, on D, in front of a gang of puerto rican crack dealers who must have thought it was hilarious.
me: go the fuck home!
her: no
me: dont you have any self-respect?
her: no
me: jesus you are fucking nuts.
the story ends with her getting in a cab. i should have felt guilty i guess, but i was kind of elated instead. i slept like a baby.
did i mention that i have a mustache?
2 Comments:
After a particularly heartbreaking draft that saw a post rag-huffing Danny Ainge draft a herpetic albino who may or may not have popped through Tayshaun Prince's stomach Alien-style, I decided I needed a beer. Luckily, Sam was getting off work and agreed to accompany me to the Cherry T.
"Oh hang on, I just need to make one call," he says as we approach the door.
BIG MISTAKE.
Focus On Seniors had her Focus on Slaughter and would not take no for an answer. Simply astounding. Can we assume at this point that Sam carries either the testicular circumference of Nadim or sheer girth of Brett? How else to explain the frenzy with which this poor girl fielded her phone call with Sam?
Lots of unanswered questions here.....
Seriously. It's exactly like that Valerie Plame scandal. Exactly.
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