The Fart Wedding

A few years ago, my wife and I were invited to a wedding in Big Bear, a cluster of mountains two hours outside L.A. There’s snow in the winter and decent skiing. In the autumn, the turning leaves almost transport you to Connecticut (I’ve never been, but I have Google.) But regardless of the season, the best part of Big Bear is escaping the L.A. smog.

The brown, yellow gunk covers the city like a dirty blanket. My wife and I couldn’t wait to take in a lungful of clean mountain air. As we got halfway up, the euphoria nearly sent me driving off the cliff. I couldn’t help but smile. This was how a person was meant to breathe, deeply, without fear.

As we pulled into the tiny resort, Jess kissed my cheek.

“It’s so pretty,” she said.

She’d booked us one of the cottages. They looked like dollhouses for adults – a little pink porch, pink roof, and all sorts of flowers. They were cramped, but cute, lining the winding trails leading to the altar.

My wife had gone to school with the bride. Neither of us had met the groom, but if history was any guide, he’d be a hippie just like her.

Normally, my weak constitution for stink keeps me from attending events with more than two or three of the Patchouli clan, but this wedding was outdoors, high above the sea. No funk could possibly survive.

Little did I know that in forty minutes, the entire reception would have the farts.

Not little squeakers or booming belches. No, these were long, arduous, silent toots, which literally and figuratively took the wind out of you.

The first twinge struck just as the best man gave his toast. I fled to the bathroom. A pretty lady hurried out and I nearly collapsed in what she’d left behind. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever smelt, but it had density.

I couldn’t leave though. My fart was already here. It lasted so long I actually got bored. It’s a miracle I didn’t shit my pants, because my butthole stayed open longer than Macaulay Culkin’s mouth in Home Alone.

Later, I found my wife walking by the pond. She looked gorgeous and happy, tiptoeing the edge of the water. She’d been dreaming of of this getaway for months. We’d been struggling financially and this was our only chance at a vacation. I didn’t want to ruin it by telling her about my stomach issues, so I shut my mouth and walked into a wall of stink.

“Jesus! Jess, is that you?”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t stop farting.”

My eyes widened. “I can’t stop either.” It was like backpacking across Europe and finally running into another American. No longer lost and alone.

“That’s why I came here to the pond,” she said. “I couldn’t be around anyone.”

“What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. Something we ate?”

I knew the culprit.  It was the couscous, maybe the roasted Brussels sprouts.

“Do you think other people are…?” she asked.

I looked back at the party, the grimaces, crinkled noses, a few blissful smirks. All while the bride and groom shared their first dance.

“What do we do?” Jess laughed. “Are we just going to sit in farts all night?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“Then I’m getting drunk.”

And we did. We even stole a bottle of wine after the reception and headed for the pool. Jess turned on the timer and jumped in the hot tub with her dress. The jets were going full blast. I could hardly see her face through the steam.

“Get in,” she said.

I didn’t want to ruin my only suit, so I told her I’d be right back and headed to the dollhouse to get my trunks.

I accidentally passed out when I was changing.

Thirty minutes later, I woke, realized what I’d done. I ran through the forest picturing my wife dead, eaten by a bear or hacked up by some deranged mountain man.

Instead, I found her still in the hot tub. She was alive and the bubbles had stopped.

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Stand-Up Videos

Jenny Duptsi over at  is a hilarious writer and human being. She said I should post links to some of my stand-up clips. So…I am. I apologize, some of the jokes are repeated on the clips. I didn’t edit them.

This next one is more of the full set with an intro by the host in front of a backdrop, which I can only assume was used in the movie Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

Ardent Atheist Tonight!

I’m going to be on Ardent Atheist tonight at 7:30 PST. We’ll be talking about gay marriage, the Supreme Court, and probably my penis.

Watch and listen at:

OR 

The following folks will be in the studio:

Anthony Szpak –

@MyGayMom

Bryan Erwin -  @bryanerwin

AND

Adam Kaplan - 

WATCH & CHAT right here:


OR 

The Loss of a Comic

Scott Kennedy passed away tonight. He was a wonderful comic, always smiling, always willing to throw his arms around you with a big ol’ hug. You might have seen him on one of the late shows or on Comedy Central. He’d been performing for over 20 years. A lot of civilians probably haven’t heard of him, but there are thousands of men and women in uniform who’ve laughed at his jokes. He entertained the troops in Afghanastan and Iraq over 50 times, and he would ask the soldiers to forget the outside world during the show, to just relax, laugh, and enjoy a bit of fun in the middle of hell.

I wasn’t the closest with Scott, but I’ve known him for almost 14 years and worked with him in Las Vegas. He was a good man with a big heart, and he was a shining light in the LGBT community. His passing weighs heavy on my heart tonight. I’ve noticed a lot of people on his Facebook page sharing their stories of Scott. Some people are asking how it happened. I don’t know, but it wouldn’t make a difference if I did.

I understand the desire to find out, the need to make sense of something so unexpected. When someone passes like this everyone scrambles for answers. We need to believe there’s order, there’s some guiding hand, that we’re not all perched on the brink of death. But we are, and we’re full of shit if we try to convince ourselves otherwise. We’re wiping smudges off the Hindenburg

If Scott was here, he’d probably agree, but he’d remind me it doesn’t matter, that of course we’re all going to pass eventually. It’s why it’s so important to let go of the pain and just laugh at the absurdity.

R.I.P. Scott.

Is Manti Te’o Gay?

Answering a question as complex and historically important as Is Manti Te’o Gay? requires such advanced journalism skills that few would dare venture into this sexual labyrinth.

Luckily for us, pulled out her big balls and asked the stud from Notre Dame, “Are you gay?”

Te’o responded, “No, far from it.  Faaaar from it.”  He laughed.  The audience laughed.

Case closed.  Nothing to see here.

But Dr. Phil wasn’t satisfied, and Dr. Phil’s balls are almost as big as Katie’s. So he sat down with the man behind the girlfriend hoax, Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, a man so devious he’s taken a name so delightful to say you forget he’s an evil mastermind.  Speaking to NBC’s Mike Taibbi on , Dr. Phil recounted how he whipped out his hairy testicles for Tuiasosopo.  “I asked him straight up, ‘Was this a romantic relationship with you?’  And he says yes.  I said, ‘Are you then therefore gay?’  And he said, ‘When you put it that way, yes.’  And then he caught himself and said, ‘I am confused.’’’

Boom!

The earth rumbled as these two investigative Titans clacked their giant balls over the heads of us mere mortals, and we opened our mouths as the droplets of truth spilled over our tongues and down our throats.  We savored and swallowed the seeds of knowledge.

The conclusion to Manti Te’o’s sexuality, we would discover, actually consists of two completely different answers:

#1: Who cares?

and

# 2: Who gives a shit?

The Unholy Bet

This post is going to be about putting things in people’s butts.  If that offends you or if you’ve just eaten pancakes, you might want to skip this.  Or bookmark it for later.

Okay, now that it’s just us sophisticated adults, let’s talk about the place farts come out.

I’ve heard some people receive quite a bit of pleasure from this orifice, but I’ve always considered the brown-eyed monster to be far too hilarious, inappropriate, and gross to even imagine reaching euphoria by shoving things up there.  My tolerance for pain is embarrassingly low, and I’m prone to giggle fits when I’m nervous.

Just the thought of a finger creeping towards that area causes me to tremble.  It’s why I’m so nervous about this Sunday, Super Bowl Sunday, to be precise.

My wife and I, you see, well, we have this bet.  Every Super Bowl we each pick a team, and the winner gets to poke the other in the tushy.  Yes, it’s juvenile and disgusting, but it does make the game more exciting.

The bet originated seven years ago.  Jess and I were living in New York.  We’d only been dating for a month.  For the Super Bowl, we went to a bar with one of her friends.  The place was loud and we weren’t really near the TV.  Somehow we got onto the subject of anal sex.  Jess told the story about her ex-boyfriend and how he asked her to use a strap-on on him.

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Oh yeah.  It was fun.”

“Thatsounds like the opposite of fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t the one getting fucked in the ass.”

“Can we please talk about something else?” Jess’s friend interjected.  “This is really gross.”

I turned towards the TV and saw the first quarter had already ended.  We’d hardly seen a play.

“I feel like we should be paying more attention,” Jess said.

“I know,” I said.  “But I don’t really care about the Steelers or Seattle.”

“Ooh, we should make a bet!” Jess said.

“Okay.  Like what?”

“I don’t know.  Not money.”  We were both in grad school and broke.

“It should be something interesting then,” I said.

“Okay… Hmmm…” Jess was clearly coming up with something devious.  Not wanting to be outdone, I blurted:

“Anal.”

“God damn it, fucking stop,” her friend said.

I kept my eyes locked with Jess.

“Alright,” she said.  “Winner gets anal.”

“Okay, it’s a betWait!  Winner gets to GIVE anal, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.”

“NOT cool,” her friend said.  “I’m seriously going to leave.”

That night, Pittsburg and I celebrated victory.  It was glorious.  The next year, Peyton Manning brought me my second championship.  I was unstoppable.  I got cocky.

Then came the New York fucking Giants.

I won the coin toss, but I let Jess pick first.  I knew she couldn’t resist her beloved hometown heroes.  The years of cheering on the Giants with her dad made this a lock.  She loved talking about the victory lap they took around the living room when Bill Parcells raised his fists into the air.  But those were the old Giants.  Eli and his buddies were facing the mighty Patriots.  Undefeated.  Bill Belichick.  Tom Brady.  The return of Randy Moss.  The puny Giants didn’t stand a chance.  The game was just a formality.  In a few hours the Patriots would finally rip out the hearts of New York, New Jersey, and the ’72 Dolphins.

I almost felt sorry for Jess as I sat on the couch smugly eating nachos.  I asked her if she wanted to get this over with during halftime.  I told her she looked nervous.  With two minutes left, I started strutting around the room.

Next, it was third down, barely a minute to go.   Four Patriots broke through the Giants’ line like jackals.  Eli scrambled.  He looked terrified.  I started to howl.  But then Eli contorted his body and escaped.  He chucked the ball to a leaping David Tyree.  Who the hell is David Tyree?  He caught the ball, pinning it against his helmet.  The most ridiculous catch the world had ever seen.  Jess jumped to her feet.  She danced.  She pointed at my face.  “Oh, yeah!  How you like me now?!”

I took a deep breath, told myself the Patriots were fine.  Belichick was a defensive mastermind.  There were still thirteen yards to go.  But after a bullet to Plaxico Burress, a man who would become famous for shooting himself in the leg at a nightclub, the Giants and Jess roared in celebration.

“Get in the room, pretty boy.”

Haha.”

“I’m serious, go.”

“Jess…”

“What, honey?  You lost.”

“Youyoudon’t even have a strap-on.”

“I have a vibrator.”

“Oh, God damn it.  Come on.”

“You made the bet.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”  The walk to our room felt like the green mile.  To be honest, electrocution actually sounded more humane.

Jess opened the dresser, pulled out her little friend.  Its tip was curved.  I started to well up.

“Anthony, hey, I’m just joking around.  We don’t have to do this.”

“No, we made the bet.”  Jess had never backed out of the wager.  I couldn’t either.  I unzipped and crawled onto the bed.  “How should II mean, uh…?”

“I don’t know…”

“What’s easier for you when…?”

“I guesson my back.”

I positioned myself, propped up a pillow, grabbed the backs of my knees.

I’d never felt more vulnerable.  I realized this is what women must feel at the gynecologist.

Jess twisted the knob.  Buzzing filled my ears.  It sounded cruel.

“Do you have to turn it on?”

“No…  I just thought it might be easier.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh, just do it.”

I closed my eyes, felt the vibrating wand tickle the hairs on my butt.  I started giggling.

“Anthony, come on.”

“I can’t help it.  I’m nervous.”

“Well, it’s making itclose up.”

“Alright, alright.  Just give me a second.”  I took a few deep breaths, tried not to picture what was about to happen.  I thought of the beers in the fridge.  I should’ve drank more.  I shouldn’t have been so confident.  I should’ve been preparing myself.  How the fuck did David Tyree catch that?!

“Okay, Anthony, I’m going to count to three.”

“Fine, whatever.”  I counted along.  “One…”

Why did I come up with this bet?

Two…”

The tip entered my private space, but she hadn’t said three.  Why hadn’t she said three?  How rude!

I’m sure my scream could be heard from space. 

“Stopmoving!” I said.

“Oh, okay, sorry.  Do you, uh, want me to pull it out?”

“UhnoyeahI don’t know…”

“Do youlike it?”

“No!  But I’m afraid of what might happen if you pull it out.”

“Oh…”

“Just stay still.”

And we sat there, neither of us moving.  Finally, I opened my eyes.  Jess clearly felt bad.  I told her it was okay.  “We’ll get through this.”

“I think I should pull it out.”

“Yeahokay…”

It was over.  I curled into a ball.  Jess held me.

“You still want to marry me?” she asked.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

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Tick…Tick…BOOM!

My wife’s biological clock went off, and like any honorable husband, I took cover and hid.  We were living in a small apartment, so it didn’t take long for her to find me.  I was frightened.  I didn’t recognize this woman.  She just kept saying, “Baby, baby, baby…” At least, that’s all I heard.  It was like a zombie movie, you know, the moment when the husband realizes his wife’s been bitten.  He doesn’t have a choice.  He has to kill her.  She’s no longer human.  She only has one purpose, only instead of “brains” it was “baby.”

The thing was, we’d had this talk.  She knew my feelings.  Long before we said, “I do,” I told her I would never bring a child into this world.  I was very clear.  There was no deception, no manipulation.  I’d been diagnosed as bipolar II, and I’d made the decision to never put that on anyone, especially a child.  Studies show that it is, in all likelihood, hereditary.

My youth was filled with darkness.  I was in third grade the first time I thought of killing myself.  I should’ve been chomping on Big League Chew.  I should’ve been playing with my Hulk Hogan action figure.  I should not have been dangling my feet outside my second-story window telling myself to lean forward so I’d land on my head and not just break my legs.

It’s hard for me to write that.  It might be hard for some of you to read.  That’s why I had no problem with my decision to never have kids.  No one should have to go through that.

Now, I’m not saying people with bipolar should remain childless.  There are a lot of parents out there who can provide for a kid suffering like I did.  My parents couldn’t.  They didn’t even fully know what was going on.  I kept most of the awful thoughts to myself, because even as a boy, I knew it wasn’t “normal.”

And I don’t blame or hate my parents for having me.   They didn’t know what they were getting into, and when I was growing up in Kansas City, people didn’t go to shrinks.

But I know exactly what bipolar means, and to risk passing it to a child would be selfish at best, and bordering on abusive.  Yes, I’d love to have a kid, teach her to read, ride a bike, to hide a dollar under her pillow as I swiped a fallen tooth, but I couldn’t live with myself when the tears came, not the crocodile ones from skinning a knee, the ones that come with the need to end everything.

I reminded my wife of this.  She said, “I understand, Anthony, I do, but you’re not hearing me.  I need to take care of something that’s not you.”

It broke my heart.  There was no question she’d be an amazing mother.  It was criminal to block her from sharing this gift with another.  Still.

“I just can’t risk putting this on a child, Jess.  I’m sorry.”

The look on her face told me I’d made a grave misstep, that’d I’d woken the zombie.  In any second, she’d be feasting on my damaged brains.  Then she said:

“I’m not talking about a child!”

“Jess, I’m… You’re…not?”

“No!  We can’t even take care of a plant without killing it.”

“So…you’re saying…?”

I don’t want to have a baby.”

“You…”

“I want a dog.”

“A dog…?  A DOG!  Oh, thank God.”

The next morning we rescued Sunny from a shelter.

It’s the best decision we’ve made since walking down the aisle.  Every morning, Sunny wakes me with a few licks and her wagging tail.  We’ve taught her a half-dozen tricks and sat by her side at the hospital when she almost died from a reaction to a bee.  She’s given me responsibility and shown me that even when the depression hits, I can still get out of bed to take care of this sweet girl.  She might never cure cancer, run for office, or learn to drive a car, but she’ll also never need braces, bail money, or college tuition.  She’s a dog, but sometimes we treat her like a baby, wrapping her in a blanket and singing “The Rainbow Connection” in our best Kermit voice.

I’m still not ready for a child, and honestly, I don’t know if I ever will be, but if in a year or two my wife wants to have a discussion, I’m not going to just immediately say, “No.”

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So Gay

When my mom came out, my sister and I were using “so gay” a lot.  It was tail end of the 90s and it was fairly common, at least around Kansas City.  My sister and I weren’t as freewheeling with it as a Smurf uses “smurf,” but we had no problem chucking it at anything we thought stupid or lame.

It wasn’t until one day I noticed my mom crying.  I don’t remember the full context, but I know we were at the mall and my sister or I had just called something “so gay.”  It could’ve been someone’s pants, a movie poster, or a new restaurant in the food court.  Honestly, we used it so often I didn’t even hear the word “gay.”  But my mom did, and she said, “Will you two please stop using that?”

What?  Gay?” my sister said.  “Gay, gay, soooooo gay?”

My sister wasn’t handling my mother’s declaration well, and it pissed her off that my mom wanted to police her vocabulary.  My sister started screaming how it doesn’t mean “faggot,” which only made everyone in the mall take notice.  My sister said that it was just a way of saying something “sucks,” and that just because my mom decided to tell everyone she likes women didn’t give her the right to dictate what other people could and could not say.

I took my sister’s side and defended her dumb logic.  Eventually, my mom backed down.  She was embarrassed and hurt.  I felt awful.   I knew she wasn’t trying to control us.  She was just tired of hearing “gay” used that way.  I can’t imagine how many derogatory comments and bad gay jokes she’d endured over the years, fake laughing and smiling to keep her cover.

Still, even to this day, I don’t think “so gay” is that offensive.  I think it’s lazy, and I think plopping “so” in there makes a person sound like an idiot.

But I understand some are offended, so I’ve stopped using it.  “Gay” by itself isn’t derogatory.  Even with the addition of “so,” it’s not really that bad, but it’s still using a word that defines a group of people in a negative light.  It’s diminishing.  I mean, if you see something that isn’t very tall, you don’t say, “That’s so Chinese.”  Or maybe you do.

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Sex Party – Part 1

A few years ago my wife and I had to go to Texas for a wedding.  My wife really wanted to wear the dress she’d worn on our honeymoon, and she challenged me to squeeze into my old suit.  We had two weeks to lose ten pounds.  My wife suggested the lemonade diet, which means drinking lemon juice and maple syrup, then shitting your brains out.  It’s disgusting, but we achieved our goal.

After the wedding, we figured we’d strut around a little before we went back to stuffing our faces.  Jess thought we should have a threesome.  She didn’t have anyone in mind and I was too hungry and lightheaded to start some extensive search, so I went online and saw an ad for a “swingers meet and greet” at a hotel in L.A.  We’d never done anything like this and we figured at the very least we’d get a good story, so we put on our fancy duds and headed downtown.

The hotel had a Moroccan theme with purple pillows on the floor and silk drapes hanging from the ceiling.  We were instructed to the ballroom, where we found a group of middle-aged weirdos gyrating on the dance floor.  Everyone seemed shiny and bleached.  There were guys in Ed Hardy t-shirts, and a lot of the women had visibly pierced nipples.

A small Asian man handed me a gift bag.  There were condoms, a dildo, and flyers for more events.  Off to the side, I spotted a buffet table of mini tacos.  The DJ was playing AC/DC.

Jess and I tried not to laugh as we took in the dry humping.

Within a few minutes I’d seen enough and said we should leave.

“Let’s at least get a drink,” she said.  “We drove all the way down here.”

I asked her to come with me to the bar, but she said she was fine watching the weirdos.  Reluctantly, I walked off feeling like an asshole for leaving my wife.  A woman standing by herself in this place was like chum in the water.  I quickened my pace and ordered two vodka sodas.  I noticed a shy couple standing against the wall.  They looked normal and out of place.

I brought the drinks over to Jess and she subtly pointed to a guy who had his balls out.

The shy couple began walking towards us.  There was nowhere for us to go.  We shared an awkward hello and I asked if they’d seen the guy and his testicles.  They said yes and asked if we’d seen the pregnant woman.  Thankfully, we had not.

The couple was in their 30’s.  The guy said they were from Pasadena, and like us, they’d never been to one of these things.  The woman talked about her two kids.  My wife asked to see a picture.  The woman pulled out her phone and show us one their family at Disneyland.

“They’re adorable,” Jess said.

The DJ got on the mic.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the upstairs is now available.  Feel free to take your drinks, but check your inhibitions on the first floor.”

“Upstairs?” Jess asked.

“Yeah, there’s a whole other party up there,” the guy said.

This did seem a little tame compared to what I’d imagined, even with the dude and his balls.  It reminded me of a bar in Kansas called Touché.  My parents used to go there when they were married.

The couple asked Jess and I if we wanted to go upstairs.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said.  “We really should get back home.  We have a dog.”

“No, we don’t,” Jess said.  This was technically true.  We did not have a dog at the time, but I didn’t understand why she was throwing me under the bus.  She said, “Let’s go up.  I want to see.”

“Yeah, alright.”  I followed them to the elevator and gave my wife a dirty look.

On the drive here Jess and I had talked about what we were willing to do, about boundaries.  We’d had threesomes with girls, but we’d never done anything with a guy or a couple.  I suddenly felt sick.  It wasn’t just the thought of Jess being with another guy; it was the fact they’d just shown us pictures of their kids at Disneyland.  I imagined the little tykes at home with a babysitter thinking their mom and dad were at a movie.

Jess and I squeeze into the elevator with two more couples, who had to be their 60’s.  The women were wearing plastic beads.  I prayed they weren’t going to show us their boobs.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened.  A fat, naked guy was standing in the hallway eating a piece of cake.

I pulled Jess to the side.  “I really don’t feel comfortable.”

“Okay, we can go.  I just wanted to see what was up here.”

“I want to see, too.  I just…I don’t want to do anything, okay?”

“I don’t either.  We’ll go after these drinks, okay?”

“Yeah…alright.” It was, after all, my idea to come here, and honestly, I was curious to see what oddities lurked beyond the naked man and his cake.

We passed an open door on the left.  A woman in pleather was on the balcony blowing an old, hairy guy.  He kept waving to people down on the sidewalk.

The couple from Pasadena asked if we were hungry.

“No, I’m, uh, okay,” I said.

The guy offered his hand.  “I’m sorry, I’m Brian.”

“Hi…Brian.  I’m Anthony.  This is Jess.”

“I’m Claire,” Brian’s wife said.

We all shook hands and entered another room.  People were standing around a sad woman lying on a table.  Her body was covered with sushi and fruit.  Two men were bent over eating things off her boobs and shaved va-jang.

I quickly walked out and wandered into a room with two dominatrixes spanking an Asian man.  He looked over and I realized it was the guy who’d given us the gift bag.  I didn’t know what to do, so I just gave him a thumbs up.  He seemed happy.

At the end of the hall there was a suite with a big empty bed.  Jess had worn her most painful boots and couldn’t wait to sit down.

“Oh, that feels nice,” she said.

Brian looked around the room.  He suddenly seemed really nervous. “You, uh, uh, don’t want to sit there.”

“No?” Jess said.

“No, that’s the ‘all-play’ bed.”

“Oh…the what?” Jess asked.

“It means people can do anything they want to you,” Claire said.  “If you sit there, you’re basically telling everyone you’re up for like…everything.”

Oh God!” Jess said, quickly popping up.

I noticed a sweaty man and a woman with a neck tattoo on the other side of the room.  They were sitting back down on some folding chairs, both clearly disappointed Jess had gotten up from the bed.

“Thank you,” I said to Brian.

“Yeah, I figured that wasn’t what she was looking for.”

“No, no, no,” Jess said.  ”I was wondering why no one was sitting there.”

“Yeah, that’s why,” Claire smiled.

“How’d you know about the bed?” I said.  “I thought you two had never been to one of these things?”

“Oh, we haven’t,” Claire said.  “We got a room, and when we checked in, they gave us a little rundown.”

“Oh…” I said.  “Well, I’m glad you were here.”

“We’re glad you’re here,” Claire said, then leaned in.  “We expected it to be just a bunch of creepy people.”

“Oh my God, we did too,” Jess said.

For the next ten minutes, we just kept chatting.  Brian told us about the shipping company he worked for.  Claire mentioned they’d just booked their vacation to Alaska.  Jess said we’ve always wanted to go there.  Brian joked that his feet were hurting and pretended to sit on the “all-play” bed.  We laughed and drank our cocktails, and except for the old guy getting a handjob in the corner, it was like a normal-ish party.  People were sharing email addresses and eating snacks and talking about the Lakers.

Before I knew it, our drinks were finished.

“Is there a bar up here?” I said.

“No, it’s downstairs,” Brian said.

Claire whispered, “We actually brought a bottle of vodka.  It’s in our room.  We figured the drinks were going to be really expensive.”

“Good idea,” I said.

“Do you two want a…drink?” Brian said.

“Oh…I don’t know.  Jess?”

“I’d like one more,” my wife said.

And suddenly we were following the couple from Pasadena to their room.  Things were about to get really weird.

To be continued…

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