I was invited to a poker game recently and it was one of those moments when my life flashed before my eyes. I gotta say, it bore a remarkably satisfying resemblance to a movie. If that movie happened to be a mashup of Good Fellas, Dexter, The Fisher King and The Shining. Don’t worry, the amalgam makes perfect sense to me sans meds. I think . . .
Anyways, this invite held all the appeal of a lunch date with my dentist. Sans meds. So I did what any civilized member of society would do when faced with an unpleasant situation. I lied my ass off. Which means that maybe there is hope for me when it comes to the idea of peacefully coexisting with other humans. Okay . . probably not. But lying in order to extricate myself from said unpleasant situation is progress.
The last time I played poker was during the Obama administration. The unfortunately assailable contingent I had invited over decided to involve themselves in a political argument about the Philadelphia Eagles. Things got so heated that I kicked them out. Admittedly, I could’ve reacted more sensibly to their imbecilic rantings, but hey, there were five of them and I only had three bullets in my snub nosed revolver, so there’s that.
Fast forward to recently . . .
“We’re having a get together next weekend, gonna play poker. I’m gonna have beer,”
I should have been insulted by the way in which this individual- I’ll call him Chris since that’s his name- introduced the presence of adult beverages to me. As if I need alcohol in order to function in any kind of social setting. Never mind the fact he was correct, I was still flattered. Of course he really doesn’t know me all that well if he imagined beer was an adequate sedative for yours truly. Beer is simply the gateway drug you gift me at the door, after which I take to fixing myself a well starched martini with three olives, stuffed with Xanax.
“Man that sounds great, but I’m having the kids over . . .” I lied.
This is why you have kids. Well, one of the reasons. I’m sure there are others . . .
Of course, I could have taken Chris up on the invitation if only for the material. But it would have meant spending two hours and thirty seven minutes at a social gathering I had scant (zero) interest in attending (I worked up a scientific model in which I postulate this is the minimum amount of time I would need to invest. The presence of beer added forty six minutes).
As the above scenario involving that motley crew of football fans attests, I have an allergic reaction to gatherings of more than two individuals. In my experiences, that’s where forgettable shit tends to happen. Don’t take my word for it. Just look at Congress, and the Cleveland Browns. So to think that beer is going to san my skrit, Guten my berg or Prima my donna is to bark a Don McLean song up a redwood tree. In other words, it’s like presenting me with a coupon for a complimentary prostate exam.
Now, if I was truly immersed in the Zen of Ernesto Fonseca Carillo, I would’ve reported this gathering to the COVID police. Problem is, there is no such organization. Yet. So instead I’ll await the post game reports that are certain to be littered with horror stories. Because every time an individual has their bell rung in the form of marriage counseling or a DUI, it can only mean one thing.
A social butterfly just got its wings ripped off.