The office party was actually a great time. I was worried at first because a) I am not a huge fan of hanging out with people I work with and b) the people that organized the whole thing are the same people who are always doing their best to make me look like an idiot. But this time, it turned out well. My Smoking Buddy and I met at my house, because in a prior discussion, I explained that since it was MY party, I felt that I should be able to get hammered without having to worry about how to get home. Translation: You’re fucking driving, and I am drinking my face off.

That settled it. We got there around seven and ordered appetizers and beers that were bigger than our heads and we chatted until the real fun began. The real fun is when the waiters, cooks, bartenders and anyone else who is employed there, get on stage, one by one and sing songs and play instruments. But, nope, it doesn’t stop there. If you are really (and I mean REALLY) lucky, you will have coworkers and friends who want to embarrass the bejesus out of you and will make you get on stage to do an interpretive dance (along with other people with bastards for friends) to “The Unicorn Song”. At this point, if you are me, you will simultaneously shoot your friends the bird and try to get the hand signal for ‘elephant’ correct while your friends laugh at you and take pictures.

After most of my coworkers had filtered out and had been replaced by Jennagiraffe (who is so bizarre lately, I can’t even tell you), Spliff, Fish Head (and an old friend of ours from the O-Tree days), and L (and her new girlfriend), we (The Smoking Buddy, FH, L, Spliff and I) battled the rest of the bar for…a can of Spam. I don’t know what came over us. We needed to win that Spam. And we got it. We managed to beat out four tables of twenty people each by screaming. That’s right. We screamed as loud as we could, somehow managing to be LOUDER than tables of TWENTY…to win a CAN OF SPAM…and then we WON.

After leaving there, FH, OT Friend, SB and I decided to hit up the oldest, weirdest bar at the beach and were not disappointed. I felt that it might be a little strange if I walked in carrying a can of Spam in my purse, but as soon as I saw the man with the seventies porn ‘stache talking to FH, I remembered, there is nothing in this bar that is less weird than Spam. FH managed to attract the first group of weirdos who approached her by calling her Rachel and then proclaiming that she was rude. Because she didn’t answer. To something that isn’t her name. This is all still a mystery to everyone involved, but I think that everyone had a good time placing bets on whether or not I would punch the idiot in the face or if I was going to just continue to laugh in it. I didn’t have to punch him. But I am pretty sure he won’t call anyone Rachel again unless he is sure that that is her name. And I am quite certain that he then will not approach the girl sitting just three stools away to tell her what a bitch the other girl is without first saying, “is that your sister?”

After FH could no longer stand the weirdness and had gone home, SB and I were approached by yet another herd of morons. This time younger, barely old enough to drink, actually, who wanted to buy us shots. Of course, we didn’t argue and took the shots but then when we refused to go back to their HOUSE and smoke POT, they got really angry. Well, correction: Pretentious blonde dread-lock boy got very angry.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What? You think you’re too good to smoke?”

“No. I just don’t smoke.”

“That’s fucked up. My friend just bought you a shot.”

“And then I thanked him.”

“I wouldn’t have let him waste the money.”

“Listen, if you buy a girl a drink it does NOT mean that she then has to rush right over to your house to smoke pot with you and whatever other things you infants do after you leave the bar.”

What has happened to boys in the last couple of years? Seriously.

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