Ten minutes after getting the shit kicked out of me by an accounting final, I called up Lisa for dinner.
Robbie: “Yo, cook up some New England chowder the way I like it. Be there in five.”
Lisa: “Robbie, I’ve told you this a hundred times. We’re going to my uncle’s birthday party tonight.”
Robbie: “Oh… right.”
I played it off as if this wasn’t the first time I’d ever heard of it.
Lisa: “Let me guess. You have no recollection of me ever talking about it.”
Robbie: “Haha! What?”
So we hopped in the car and headed off to New Jersey for a sixty year old man’s birthday party.
Upon arrival I quickly realized this wasn’t an average old person party. It was not being referred to as a “birthday party,” but rather a “possum day parade.” Pictures of possums decorated every wall.
Robbie: “…the fuck?”
Lisa: “Oh, he didn’t want to call it a birthday party. So it’s the possum day parade.”
It was the most awesome thing I’d ever seen. Besides possums, there were also about fifty Lisa relatives drunkenly stumbling around laughing about the possum day parade joke which was somehow still fresh despite the party having started nearly three hours before. I was awkwardly introduced to a bunch of relatives before being shuffled downstairs for a round of “Circle of Death.” Unlike the usual game specifications, this game consisted of a bunch of cards scattered over a pool table while six people stood around arguing over what the drinking rule is for a jack.
Lisa and I joined in the game, and I faked interest while a cousin-of-a-cousin explained to me yet again how sweet the possum day parade joke is. Right before my forced smile broke, my turn came around and I pulled a nine.
Robbie: “Nice. Rhyme time. First word: Snitch.”
Lisa’s cousin: “Twitch.”
Distant relative: “Niche.”
Lisa’s thirty-year old cousin Mike chimes in, “Nope. That’s not a rhyme. Drink.” To illustrate his doucheyness, he was wearing a chain over his shirt, tight jeans, and was just a hair over five feet tall.
Lisa, along with the other cousins nodded in agreement.
Robbie: “This is insane. Quidditch is a perfect rhyme. How the hell is this unanimous? I refuse to drink.”
The game moved on, but my disbelief lingered. Just then, a drunken man hopped by, put his head down on the table, and laid a rubber piece of fake vomit by his mouth. Everyone screamed. He jumped up smiling like he just made the greatest joke ever, and the table burst out laughing. Where the fuck am I?
With the vomit comedian being the most reasonable human being there, I posed him the question:
Robbie: “You seem like a reasonable human being. Snitch and Quidditch. Do they rhyme?”
Vomit-Jester: “Hell yeah!”
Robbie: “Thank you. Yes. Christ.”
Suddenly Mike fires off, “Will you shut the FUCK up about the rhyme? Stop being a FUCKING TOOL. It’s FUCKING annoying.”
I stared in disbelief once again at him before turning to Lisa, and looking at her as if to say, “What the fuck?”
Unsure if she got the message, I said louder into her ear, “What the fuck is wrong with your cousin?”
She ignored me. At that moment a woman called out from upstairs, “We’re cutting the cake! Come on up!”
Everyone filed up the stairs. I turned to Lisa.
Robbie: “Seriously? What was that all about? Can I say something to him?”
Lisa: “Robbie. Just leave it alone. He’s a personal trainer, he’ll kill you.”
Robbie: “No, no. OK, I’m just going to say one thing.”
Lisa: “DON’T. Please. Just drop it. He’s drunk or something.”
Lisa: “Stop it or I’ll cry.”
Robbie: “Ah… fine.”
Lisa continued to the cake cutting room while I slipped off to the kitchen. She started chatting with some relatives about the cake or something.
Lisa: “It has icing and the cake part too— Wait. Where’s Robbie?”
She ran into the kitchen to find me pouring orange juice and bleach into a cup.
Lisa: “What the hell are you doing!?”
Robbie: “Ah… just making some… Sprite.”
Lisa: “With OJ? And bleach? …were you going to try and poison him?”
Robbie: “No… I mean, oh the bleach. Yeah, I was thinking about it.”
Lisa: “Robbie. Leave it alone right now.”
Defeated, I set down my cup of Sex on the Bleach and joined the rest of the party.
Recovering from the startling verbal attack, I chugged two Blue Moons and started chatting about tits with an elderly man wearing an Indiana Jones hat. Lisa managed to calm down as well and we ate some of the delicious cake that they so badly needed us to watch be cut.
It was almost ten and the night was winding down. Lisa’s dad walked over to see if we were ready to leave.
Lisa’s dad: “You ready to leave?”
Lisa: “Yeah, I think so. Let me just grab my keys.”
Lisa wandered over to the couch while I stood up and walked to the door with her dad. Suddenly, I heard a yell, a smash, and a scream from the kitchen. Glancing around the corner I saw Mike breathing heavily and yelling obscenities next to a giant hole he had apparently put in the wall with his fist.
“WHO THE FUCK PUT BLEACH IN THIS CUP? FUCK. FUCK. I’LL KILL A BITCH.”
He hacked and coughed a few times before jamming his head under the faucet. Giggling to myself, I strutted back to the front door. I gave a quick double pound and a peace sign before shutting the door behind me.
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