Big Baller Wants to See the Bitches

I'm a rock star, and I really want to go to this lingerie party.

I have these new friends from the gym. They're cool, and they're hot. And one of them is throwing a lingerie party.

I said, "Great, what time should I be there?"

"No, no, no. You can't go. You're a guy."

"It's okay," I assured them. "I only want to watch."

When they described this party, it kind of sounded hot at first. A bunch of hot women sitting around in their hottest lingerie (underwear is utilitarian; lingerie is hot). Come on. And it's going to be catered by a chef. Like, a real chef--not just some guy who says he knows how to cook but is solely there to see something titillating and skintil--er, I mean scintillating.

"And then, the stripper arrives at 12," my friend said.

This sounded pretty cool. Until I realized I was a retard. "No way! A stripper?! That's awes...Wait a minute. Do you mean a male stripper?"

It stopped being hot right about here. But I said I could most definitely stay until 12, and then I'll just leave when the male stripper gets there so I can be out of the way. They said that this was fine--and would actually be better for me not to show up, and then I'll completely be out of the way.

I said, "No, no. You won't even know I'm there. I'll bring some books, maybe a couple of magazines. So that when your hot friends come in, I'll check their clothes in at the-"

"You'll check their clothes? What do you mean?"

"Oh," I said, "They'll strip down and I'll take their clothes for them. You won't even know I'm there. I'll just be reading for most of the evening. Can I bring a camera?"

And then they go prancing around at the gym handing out invitations to hot--and some not-so-hot--girls and they don't even give me one. Jesus fucking Christ.

I had to break out the big guns at this point. "Yeah, I'm having a video game party. You're not invited, so don't even ask. When we're playing my Playstation at my big party--and we're talking the CLASSIC Playstation--and eating our catered dinner of frozen Tombstone pizzas, you'll be sitting at home bored and alone. Because you're not invited."

I was aiming for a tit-for-tat, here. A sort of, "Okay, you come to my lingerie party if I can go to your sweet video gaming party."

Nope. Didn't happen. Goddamn it.

I met the chef catering it. Seemed pretty cool. He lives on my street and has a couple of these big fucking Freightliner catering trucks--like nothing I've ever seen (though I've only seen pictures). We'll see how cool he is--we'll see if he can sneak me in, perhaps inside an especially large creme brulee.