To do that, we have to be nice to Dogkicker. Remember, DK for short. And Shawn has to kind of act like she wants to be his girlfriend again, but only for a couple of days.
If we accomplish this mission, we will be handsomely rewarded with two days and one night aboard a 30-foot Contender, during which time we�ll drink lots of beer, get lots of sun, ogle lots of cute boys, and have a shitload of fun.
But man. This is NOT an easy mission. DK�s already starting to get all up in her bizness. He came over Tuesday night and was boring, although he did bring a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes with him. We hung out with his boring ass, and I managed to be polite the entire time, which is a feat that should surely be documented somewhere to receive multitudes of oohs and aahs, but I don�t have time for that.
So last night, I come home from Tae Kwon Do, and can tell Shawn�s all crabby on the couch. I say, �Little Missy, get your hot butt up and get ready to go out. We�re going to Ladies� Night.� While I was in the shower, I wasn�t sure, but I thought I could hear Shawn talking to someone all angry and excited. Yep, she was on the phone with DK, and he was bitter because he wanted to come over.
Tough shit, DK! We need to get our drink on!
She finally got rid of him, and we got dressed. I was wearing black pants, black boots, a white ribbed tank, and my Powerpuff girls dogtag. Shawn was sporting jeans, a black tank, and braids underneath a bandana tied all ghetto.
As we got out of the car, I remarked that we looked particularly dykey this evening.
The bouncer greeted Shawn with, �What�s up, Tupac?� and that of course instantly became her name for the rest of the night.
Miraculously, DK never showed up. But that didn�t stop us from partying like we were just freed from the looney bin. I�m pretty sure I smoked ALL the cigarettes.
No matter what anyone tells you, that was NOT me dancing in the DJ booth.
And it totally was NOT me smoking a Virginia Fucking Slim.
And I was DEFINITELY NOT leaning against the bar, kissing a cowboy.
So of course, I was NOT running around wearing his 10-gallon hat all night. (They should be called 46-pound hats. That was one heavy chapeau. Not that I would know anything about it.)
I don�t know who thought shots were a good idea. All I know is many people were handing my cups of red sticky stuff, and they were forcing me to drink it. I tried to pass my shots off on about 7 bystanders, and no one would let me.
Oh, and it also was NOT me in Waffle House at 3 a.m., shoveling in eggs and waffles like all I�ve been allowed to eat for the last year is Mrs. Hannigan�s cold mush.
And I definitely was NOT the girl who found herself locked out of her house this morning, and was unable to rouse Shawn with door-knocking, so had to traipse through our jungle of a yard in order to pound on her window so she�d let me in because I was horribly late for work.
In case you were wondering.
