Laura Stone (stoney321) wrote,
Laura Stone

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If you can read this, my mullet's not long enough.

I want that on a tee-shirt. Bweee! Oh, the mullet. The hair pelt. Alabama waterfall. Kentucky Mudflap. Camaro Cut. Whorehouse 'Do. (Business up front, party in the back.) And the ever elusive She-Mullet, or She-pelt, as I call it.

So what you're TELLING me, is that you don't like to laugh. That you like to WALLOW in misery and woe, and that you DO NOT NEED a laugh this holiday season. Is that... is that what you're telling me? Because frankly, mister, I don't get it.

WE NOW HAVE RON BURGUNDY DOING WEEKLY NEWS REPORTS, PEOPLE. And Johnny Depp and Will Ferrell getting high. Soulless bastards, you are all soulless bastards. Or, you know, have other interests. SAME THING. Hee!

Saturday night was a neighborhood party that I wasn't too jazzed about - most of the neighbors are pretty meh. Nice, kind, but meh. They're old and they're not old, you know? The women have given up, basically and are Mommies, and the men talk about their Jobs. Well. The resident hootchie mama (no kids) threw the party and invited a more varied group, which turned out to be fantastic. A couple from Scotland (about...42? Maybe 39? That range) moved in and were there. Naturally, I drifted over and started talking to them. FANTASTIC!

The wife and I laughed about British comedies - she was happy to talk to someone that knew that "a big girl's blouse" was an insult, and not a fashion choice. Because I can't help it, I started talking like her. I do a fairly passable accent, I'll say that. Her husband wanders over behind me and I hear a rumblling voice, "you do a grrrreat joob at that. You moost like Mike Meyerrrs." I turn around an introduce myself and he's friggin' Sting with black hair. And a Scottish accent. Rawr. Oh, yeah. His wife. Oh, and I'm married, too. Aaaaaanyway. We all chatted about music and television - they were happy I knew of their favorite shows, I promised to look into some they recommended - and he asked me if I liked Joy Division and the Pogues. *dies* *dreams of an alternate universe* Great senses of humor, great people, made it lots of fun. And man do the Scottish HAAAAAAAATE the British. Heee!

So. Mr. S got SLOSHED that night, to the point of being hung-over on Sunday. To the point of not wanting to go to the company party Sunday night. HUURAH! Also, apparently my body felt guilty over mooning over this handsome Scottish man and bequeathed me with zits in the center of my forehead. It's fun to be in your early thirties and have zits. That's FUN. *cries because I broke the F string on my viola and the teacher is going to be MAD at me for being late!!* Sorry - flashback to JUNIOR HIGH.

And since we all know this week is crap at work - seriously: no one's doing a damned thing, and you know it. Or they'll pretend they are, but they're playing minesweeper. Or spider soliatire. So all week I'm posting the best (worst) of my prior Company Parties. Including: the brick of marijuana a BOSS gave me, the "Elaine" of the office who fell down on the dance floor every year, and sex in the bathroom. *sniff* I love Christmas...

[ETA!!!] Happy birthday (apparently!) to somecandytalkin!! No WONDER I had you on the brain today!
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