Scaramouche, scaramouche, will you do the moviefone

A couple of arrogant fucks once boasted to me of the “coed naked” T-shirts which they had commissioned for their special hobby (which is far too embarrassing for me to mention even though I do not participate in it). The gist of it was that they were mocking the stupidity of the people who wear “coed naked” shirts by... wearing them ironically. I tried to explain to the intelligent one of the pair that she wasn't actually mocking the people who wear “coed naked” shirts because it just so happened that, by virtue of the fact that she had purchased and donned a “coed naked” shirt of her own design, she had become one of the people who wears “coed naked” shirts. She didn't seem to comprehend my point.

So when I sally forth into the following paragraph, in mockery of bloggers who refer to people by initial, you may wonder whether I am mocking the people who use initials or if I have just become one of those people. For example, both K. and K. are getting married this year, and they're both getting married to men named J. Is that creepy? In contrast, K., who only dates men named J. (which is definitely creepy), is not getting married this year, but you don't need to get married when you're in Europe. Get it? Okay, here we go.

Y. calls me up and says, « Clint, do you want to go to the opera tonight? »

Two questions later, I say, « Sure. Is there any pre-opera dinner action? »

« I have dinner plans, » she replies haughtily, « T. was interested in dinner though. Call C₁. about it. Don't invite C₂.! »

I had no intention of inviting either C₂. or C₃., but I called C₁. C₁. didn't answer, so I constructed a voodoo doll and stabbed it.

After some time, circumstances changed a bit, and in order to accommodate reality a bit, Y. cancelled her dinner plans, and we arranged a meeting place with T. and C₁. and E. Since none of us were going to end up having time for dinner, Y. said that she'd bring “finger sandwiches”. There was some discussion of buying wine to go with the “finger sandwiches”, which I thought was a little silly, and the conclusion was a bunch of vague non-committal grunts.

I was surprised when three bottles of wine showed up. I was surprised by the enormity of the “finger sandwiches”. I was surprised to see M. at our meeting spot. Then M. got a phone call and proceeded to announce that A. was en route. There was some quibbling over whether we should all wait for A. or whether M. should wait while the rest of us got our seats. We concluded that the latter was the sanest option. I opted to wolf down one of the foot-long “finger sandwiches” and a healthy amount of whichever wine got opened first.

A. shows up with a large bag of food. She explains that she had gone shopping at Whole Foods, and as she is still drunk from the margaritas she had started drinking at lunchtime, she had bought a bit too much food. At this point, there is no indication of her drunkenness, though she has bought numerous cheeses, loaves of bread, candies, a giant low-fat or fat-free cake-like abomination, cookies, a several-pound chunk of chocolate, and a sizeable bottle of Orangina.

She drinks the Orangina as not to get any drunker, and I cringe in terror as a boor gets on stage and screams about how the fatcats in Washington are trying to purge the Earth of the performing arts and how we've all got to take action to fight that. I consider writing to my elected representatives in the Federal government, but only because the guy on stage is one of them.

A. switches from Orangina to wine at M.'s coaxing. Some asshat in front of us starts waving the flag of another country for no reason we can discern. Y. starts hissing about how she needs someone to fetch her a shotgun. It takes far too long for anyone to forcibly stop the flag waver, but it happens eventually. No shotguns were involved.

Now, among those not in the know, there are often rumors that A. and I have a thing going. This is because I call her fat and threaten to do possibly-unpleasant things to her breasts, and in return she calls me things I won't mention and threatens to do non-breast-related things to me, and makes obscure Lloyd Alexander references that only I understand. Those in the know, on the other hand, are aware that she cheated on her husband with M., and are somewhat irritated by this because apparently her husband is a really nice guy. I've never been allowed to meet him, so I've no idea.

Anyway, we start misbehaving. E. managed to maintain decorum the entire time, but M. and A. started fondling each other and kissing and giggling, and C₁. started SMSing comments about how these people can't behave themselves, and T. is on IRC complaining about how people are misbehaving. A. grabbed at my cell phone in protest of our rude electronic communication, so I slapped the hell out of her.

« Do you want me to beat him up? » M. inquired from A.'s lap. Being possessive and protective of girls with whom you wish to copulate is apparently a rather popular pastime in the white trash community, because C₂. had threatened to beat me up on A.'s behalf not two days before. Anyway, to her credit, she said, « No, I deserved it. »

To show my admiration, I beaned her with a wine cork. C₁. had some hand sanitizer, which we entertained ourselves with while arguing about which opera La donna è mobile is from. I wish the consensus had been West Side Story, but the majority opinion was for La bohème. I'll assume that the “è” had something to do with the confusion.

Against all odds, they managed to finish the opera despite us and the other miscreants, and we proceeded to leave. On the way out, M. and A. had an utterly inane discussion which would have been utterly forgettable had they not ended each sentence by calling each other “baby”. Thenceforth, I have addressed them both as “baby”, which makes them very embarrassed and quiet.

« Clint, » A. whined, « Give me your job. »

« You're drunk, » I countered.

« But I'm cute! » A. insisted.

« Oh, I see. You're REALLY drunk, » I observed.

« Meh, » she mumbled, no longer on her sluttiness high. « Men are dumb. »

M. declared that I must absolutely go see some museum exhibit I'm sure I don't care about, and A. said, « No! We're going to see that! »

« Yes, we are, » M. agreed.

« Okay, baby, » I said patronizingly, then went home with T.