Usually I am my own worst enemy. But when the haze of cheap booze and strange candy wears off, I can be my own best friend. So I don’t know what to call it when I set myself up on my own blind date. How do you set yourself up on your own blind date you might be asking yourself? Easy. Get invited to a Hipster Douche party by your usually remarkably brilliant co-worker who coaxes you to go by waving a sixer of Mac and Jacks African Amber Ale. An Amber Ale over an IPA you say? Yes, because the African Amber goes down caramel-ly and smooth like Zoe Saldana’s tongue down your throat and the IPA is like being forced to swallow an electric light bulb full of warm piss and then getting boot stomped in the esophagus. But I digress. About six minutes and sixty-six minutes in to the party I had finished the sweet amber nectar in hope it would refuel my tolerance tank to little avail. After realizing the well was dry, I chummed up to a dude named Judge who had Columbian Sideburns and what looked like cock-rings in his ears. He just so happened to have a flask of something he called a Black Yukon Suckerpunch that tasted like Peppermint Schnapps, Zima and cough syrup, (at least it wasn’t a frat party cause then it would have been Jagermiester *shudder*). Then he asked if I wanted to party with a friend of his out by the black lodge. Always up for an adventure, I met a pretty friend of his who didn’t have Columbian Sideburns, just an eye patch and one hell of a pitching arm, whom loved real maple syrup, David Lynch, and after-hour clubs. While I’m not into clubs that cut too deeply into my beauty sleep I do like the little tab she gave me with the One-Eyed Jack on it. Next thing I know I was standing in the woods swaying back and forth to music playing over a car stereo. Our shadows looked like creepy Kabuki theatre when we stood in-front of the headlights just off the Highway. I was tripping balls when she told me I was getting her hotter than Georgia asphalt and then pulled me in for a kiss. Her bright red lipstick tasted like cherry pie. And then I met her boyfriend, or who I assume was her boyfriend the way he decked me. The whole world froze as this giant of a man in a cowboy hat and blue velvet coat appeared from behind some trees that the red parking lights from his truck with the gun rack in the window made look like red stage curtains. Slurrily I said, “I’m thinkin’ the parties over.” sounding like Joseph Merrick. And the cowboy responded with “No, you’re not thinkin’. You’re too busy being a smart aleck to be thinkin’. Now I want ya to “think” and stop bein’ a smart aleck. Can ya try that for me?” All I can think of is that I answered him in a way that magnetized his fist to my jaw and I summarily woke up with a throbbing headache, clutching a log like it was a life-raft and a fuckin’ David Lynch CD shoved in my pocket with a note that said “The whole world is wild at heart and weird on top”. I wanted to curse the world but all I could think of was getting a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie.