As per yooge, me and the group of quaids were there this past Thursday. Steve and Rob finished up their set around 12:30, but we stuck around for a little while longer.  This post is about to take a dramatic turn. Do not associate the content that follows with my prior ringing endorsement of Steve and Rob, who you should go see wherever they may appear.  Steve and Rob are good people, a sharp contrast to what follows.

The only bar patrons at this point were about 25 twentysomethings and one older couple.  This is a usual occurrence – the bar, being attached to a Marriott and right next to two dance clubs, tends to attract a diverse age range – business travelers, foreign tourists, and college students.  Then, there was a less than usual occurrence. Indeed, I would go as far as to say that it was an unusual occurrence. The older couple was handjobbing. Hand. Jobbing. Right at the table, right in front of everyone, right in plain sight of my impressionable, naive, society-trusting eyes.

Oh my, I said to myself.  I have hit the Are you this person? jackpot. Us suddenly unintentional voyeurs were hooting, hollering, cheering, screaming in fear, squealing in disgust, vocalizing the entire gamut of reactions possible when abruptly being unwittingly thrust into a couple’s Private Time. They acknowledge the crowd with a little wave and a smile, then get back to business.  Cameras flash.  They don’t stop.  They are very clearly enjoying the spotlight.  There may or may not have been a cell phone with video capability shining a very bright LED light on them for holy-shit-that-just-happened posterity purposes.  (A video which may or may not be located here. You can’t see anything, other than be able to confirm that the arm is going up and down.  It’s very grainy, so step away from your screen and squint.  It’s solely to prove I’m not a liar about this, and also some of the screams are quite entertaining as people realize one by one what is happening).  She says, “Send us over a drink, at least!” and HOLY FUCK SHE’S GETTING ON HER KNEES. My stomach and repressed, discretion-valuing Catholic upbringing can handle it no longer.  I go to the other side of the bar, back turned, hands around my eyes like horse blinders.  A minute or two later, they exit the bar and go into the hotel.

In the next 5 minutes, the phrase “That just happened.” was spoken no fewer than 642 times. People wept, people laughed nervously, people sat in corners rocking back and forth.

Then! The woman came back! She sat at the bar! And ordered a glass of wine.  I went over to her and chatted up the Susan Boyle of hooking up.  Here’s our conversation, reproduced to the best of my trauma-blunted hippocampus’ ability. (for best results, read her lines with a Long Island accent, and every time there is a vowel sound, hold it out for 50% longer than you would think is necessary. Also, add a smidgen of MadTV’s Stewart’s mom’s intonation)

Me: Wow, that was quite the performance.  Can I take a picture with you??

Nelly: Of course, darling.

Me: Um, my name’s Steve.

Nelly: Well, it’s very nice to meet you Steve.  My name is Nelly*.

Me: So like, who was that dude?

Nelly: His name is Robert*.

Me: Where did you meet him?

Nelly: At a gay bar.

Me: A gay bar…?

Nelly: Yeah, a gay bar.  It’s right around the corner.  My gay friend was like “Let’s go out! To the gay bar!” Well, it’s not so much a gay bar. It’s more of a whorehouse.

Me: Oh, a whorehouse.

Nelly: Yeah, a whorehouse.  Anyway, I met Robert, and then we went to this patio of this restaurant around the *other* corner from here and we did it on the patio.

Me: So this is your second public encounter tonight?

Nelly: Well yeah! I went out to lunch at this nice restaurant that had a nice patio, so I brought Robert there and we had sex on one of the tables, and then we came here.  He has a room in the hotel tonight, but he wants me to come back to his house.  I don’t think I trust him enough for that.

Me: … (short inhale, squint) …

(Robert enters the bar)

Me: Nice to meet you, Robert.  Well done today.

Robert: Thank you. That was a nice tribute to Michael Jackson that you sang tonight.

Nelly: Robert can speak Italian!

Robert: Something in Italian

Me: You guys know that there were people that saw you, right?

Nelly: Oh yeah, what’s the big deal?

Me: Did you notice the camera flashes?

Nelly: Ya, we put on quite the show, didn’t we!?

Me: You guys make such a cute couple.  Can I take a picture of you two?

Robert: Please do!

Nelly: Here, take my business card! Email it to me! Hold on, let me write down my personal email address for you.

Me: Oh, well thank you! I’ll be sure to send it!

Click. (Beep, rather. It’s a camera phone. But “click” is a word more strongly associated with the sound a camera shutter makes. You get the damn point.)

Me, mind collapsing from the gravity of the situation I have experienced: Okay, well I’m going to find my friends. You two have a good night…

***

I hate straight people.

*This is a morally ambiguous post at best.  I at least changed their names, because I have at minimum 0.002 souls.

Moving my sister’s wardrobe burned many, many calories.  You don’t even know. That calorie expenditure turned into a voracious hunger, the type of hunger that requires Meat to replenish.  Luckily for my stomach, she lives within walking distance of that awesome hamburger joint that Obama took Biden to a while back when Biden was all “Not to cause a panic, but I have Bubble Boyed my entire family and am living underground and you should also do this if you love your family because SWINE FLU IS GOING TO KILL THE WHOLE COUNTRY” because Biden used to be a local news anchor, as we all know. Then Obama ordered Dijon mustard on his burger, conclusively proving that he is a gay French British communist, also a liar. Remember that? Yeah, me too. We went to there.

I ordered a burger with mustard because I am those above things as well.  It was delicious.

Let’s get something clear: Ray’s Hellburger is my favorite place in the world.  First off, its name is a terribly forced pun, which automatically puts it into the “friend” column of this site.  Second off, its menu is off of chains. They don’t just sautee their mushrooms, they sautee them in sherry.  You can upgrade from beef to foie gras.  Yes. Like, not just a bit of foie gras thrown in with the ground beef. Like, instead of beef, foie gras. Burgasms abounded.  (I did not get foie gras, as it was an extra ten dollars, and I am a man of modest means. For the record, I am pro-force feeding geese through intubation a la Kirstie Alley because once I used some foie gras in collard greens and wept like Chris Crocker it was so delicious [similes!])

Bottom line: om nom nom. I didn’t think the lunch could get any better. WRONG. Enter this matching couple:

What a delightful pair.  They are wearing matching pink shorts! Ahhh-dorbs. They then levelled up big time when, as I was taking this picture, the guy proclaims “WE DIDN’T DO THIS ON PURPOSE!” Me: “Even better! I’m putting this on my blog so the internet knows that you are a Good.”

I know there is at least one math major that reads this blog.  Does he or she want to figure out what the probability is of two people wearing pink shorts? I’m estimating it is approximately impossible.  It would be something like [p(someone owns pink shorts) x p(that person chooses to wear those pink shorts)]^2 x [p(choosing to wear a white shirt with it)]^2, which is probably within 5% of the probability of Moby not having herpes, which is also known as zero.  (I can confirm second-hand that Moby has herpes).

Thank you so much, pink-shorts wearing couple, for perfecting my already perfect day.  Thank you, Ray’s Hellburger, for attracting couples that wear matching pink shorts. God bless Rosslyn, Virginia.

Look at the following image of my (single) friend:

Did you look at it? Good.  Now you have all of the necessary information to answer the questions:

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

I don’t think I have ever seen a musical performance on a daytime talk show anywhere as incredible as yours yesterday on Ellen.  Readers, please put the following video into your eyes.  I promise you, it’s like community service for your occipital and temporal lobes.  Specifically the visual and aural perceiving portions.

I don’t know even where to start.  Just kidding, yes I do.

WHAT IS ON YOUR HEAD !?!?! [Look Nate, an interrobang approximation]. No wait, I know what it is.  It’s the thing from Contact with Jodie Foster that lets her figure out that she does indeed believe in God.  Or that she doesn’t believe in God.  I don’t really remember since I was like 13 when I saw it.  You remember exactly what I’m talking about.  That’s just like her hat, right!? I know. I know, right!?

Next item.

I HAVE NEVER LIKED ANY ONE-PIECE GARMENT MORE THAN I CURRENTLY LIKE YOUR CURRENT ONE-PIECE GARMENT. Listen, I lived in the non-matching-denim capital of the world, Buenos Aires, Argentina, for six months. I wanted to puke every second in the downtown area because of the quantitude of non-matching jeans and denim jackets.  I nearly literally always need to puke when seeing incongruous denim shades. But your denim-patched onesie makes me want to the opposite of puke. It makes me want to inverse puke. It makes me want to unpuke. Your denim-patched onesie is in fact most quite becoming on you, Miss Lady Gaga.

Let’s move on to your actual talent and performance, shall we?

Can we talk about your clear, bubble-filled piano? Yeah, that’s what I said.  It’s a piano that is the following things: (1) Clear (2) Filled with bubbles.  You know that that’s not even how pianos work, right?

Oh, and also. You put your butt in the air.  On the Ellen show.  GOLD STAR AND MEDAL OF HONOR.

There has never been a classier interpretation of The Robot, nor of The Sprinkler.  Michael Steele could not approach your talent level.

MOAR DESCANT

Dip thine balls in eye makeup, gain +14 EXP

Make Ellen cry?? +1400 EXP!!!

Lady Gaga, you are my new favorite entity (sorry, Mom!). You can do no wrong. Let me borrow your boots?

Jesus Christ.  Have some fucking self-respect.  How much do I hate thee?  Let me count the ways:

1. Rolled up cut-off skinny jeans.
2. Whatever those fucking slippers are.
3. Red Air Jordan whateverthefuck high tops.
4. Ironic Ray-Bans. We get it. They were popular in a different decade. Or something.
5. Studded belt from Wet Seal.
6. Whale tank top. Whale. Tank top.  Edit: Apparently it’s a shark tank top. All the more loathsome.
7. Your goddamned smug fucking smirks.  How the shit did you learn to smirk irony?
8. Your mustaches. Holy lookatthisfuckinghipster.com, your mustaches. Can we zoom in on those fucking mustaches for a hot second?

Disgusting. You need to get put down. 

Did I get all of them?

You know what’s even more disgusting?  I’m good friends with these assholes.  We were in a sketch comedy troupe together, and they are hella hilarious.  They have a new website that you should immediately and continuously consume. It’s called So Fucking Metal, and it is exactly what you expect.  Seriously, go there and check out the video of the eagle repeatedly throwing goats off of cliffs.  EAGLES THROWING GOATS OFF CLIFFS.  Stop reading this and click the link already.  So you can gloat that you knew about it before it got popular and sold out.

This is the diagram that my two quaid friends and I were discussing at 1369 in Central Square.  You overheard what we were talking about and started laughing.  I feel bad for not showing it to you before we bounced due to our inferior meteorological abilities and dearth of umbrellas.

As you can see in this Venn diagram, there is a sliding scale between pumas and cougars. Cougars and pumas, of course, are both older ladies that enjoy preying on younger men. The most important factor would be the age difference between the bitty and the dude.  If there is a large age difference, she is a cougar. If it is a smaller age difference, she is a puma.  There are too many complicating factors, such as tweed, plastic surgery, divorce status, etc. to predict with any reasonable certainty whether a hypothetical pairing would render a male victim pumaed or cougared.

Milf status is determined only by presence of a child: if puma or cougar and child, then milf.   All successful pumas and cougars with children are milfs.

Hope you found this information useful, person with arrows pointing at her face and her dad who was sitting at the table with her and listening in as well. Feel free to share it via the icons in the footer with any parties who may find it useful: mothers, aunts, lady coworkers, etc. or who otherwise may embarrass themselves by misusing terminology.

However, be advised that all three terms have suffered death by meme.

Just kidding. I’m fine.  I just wanted an excuse to link to that hilarious Daily article.

You look just like Josh Hartnett.

You talk with a Kiwi accent, which is 12% better than an Aussie one. And you waved me over.

Your shorts are misleading. Once again, the eternal quandry of “gay or international” at Tufts (and in real life for that matter) is proved to be unanswerable. 

Whatever I’m over it.  Here’s the blog post I said I would post.  Hope you enjoyed Luda half as much as I did, which would literally amount to 2 or 3 bruises and/or contusions.

I love you.

Your makeup indicated to me that you are into New Age meditation.

The part where you put your purse in a reusable Shaw’s bag means you mean business about saving the environment. Happy Earth Day to you as well.

You carry around a piece of shag carpet so that your old dog with holes on his face is always comfy. He was a well-trained dog.  And by that I mean he was on the train from Central to Davis, get it!?

He was also well-trained in the literal sense.

Or too arthritic to cause a stir.

I exited the train thanking you in my brain for brightening my day, and now I’m doing it on the internet, outside of my brain.

OH RAPTURE YOU CAME INTO THE COFFEE SHOP I WAS GOING TO 15 MINUTES AFTER I GOT THERE! My day was double brightened.

I’m glad your dog can walk.

I don’t know if it was the fact that you were the view while I was able to enjoy my first al fresco dining experience of the year in Boston, your rugged good looks, or your beaming affability.

Whatever it was, you inspired me to have my friends pretend to pose for a picture so that I could take a picture of you to put on the internet.

Oh wait.  It was the part where you were carrying cases upon cases of beer back and forth.  That’s what was so attractive.

I hope you enjoyed my dramatic reading of Mr. Noisy to my friends.

Anyway, your brew-toting left hand sports no ring or adornment.  The email link is in the right sidebar.  You know what the correct course of action is.