When the day arrives in which you come upon a holiday party, invited this time, a gathering of your superiors (not in work, but rather, in life) and half the men-and they are men this time-are in tuxedos, and the girls are all a-glitter in designer sparkles and crystal flutes are passed by a bedecked staff, and your friend has bailed, what else can be done but saying yes to small mugs of sundae-flavored liquer until the following conversation occurs?
Fancy neurosurgeon: “I’m a fancy neurosurgeon.”
Filter-less freelancer: “Does that mean you can drill me a bliss hole?”
Fancy neurosurgeon, now gulping down scotch: “Pardon?”
Filter-less freelancer, somehow emboldened by not knowing this person, and not for the first time feeling like saying the most ridiculous thing that comes to mind: “Surely you know of bliss holes! Like in that article ten years ago in Rolling Stone? Where people get tiny holes drilled in their skulls as some sort of medieval throwback to let out all the bad spirits. And they say they’re in a perpetual state of joy…pure bliss. Right?”
Fancy neurosurgeon, with a twinkle in his eye: “Right.”
Filter-less freelancer: “So how about it? Can you drill me a bliss hole?”
Fancy neurosurgeon: “Oh I’ll drill you a bliss hole all right. Why don’t you turn around?”
Record player scratches to a screeching end.
Filter-less freelancer: “Well played, sir. Well played.”
Have I finally met my inappropriate conversationalist match?
Fancy neurosurgeon: “I’m a fancy neurosurgeon.”
Filter-less freelancer: “Does that mean you can drill me a bliss hole?”
Fancy neurosurgeon, now gulping down scotch: “Pardon?”
Filter-less freelancer, somehow emboldened by not knowing this person, and not for the first time feeling like saying the most ridiculous thing that comes to mind: “Surely you know of bliss holes! Like in that article ten years ago in Rolling Stone? Where people get tiny holes drilled in their skulls as some sort of medieval throwback to let out all the bad spirits. And they say they’re in a perpetual state of joy…pure bliss. Right?”
Fancy neurosurgeon, with a twinkle in his eye: “Right.”
Filter-less freelancer: “So how about it? Can you drill me a bliss hole?”
Fancy neurosurgeon: “Oh I’ll drill you a bliss hole all right. Why don’t you turn around?”
Record player scratches to a screeching end.
Filter-less freelancer: “Well played, sir. Well played.”
Have I finally met my inappropriate conversationalist match?
2 comments:
I would give my right arm to go to one of these parties with you, just to see this stuff unfold.
HaHaHa. Well I think its good that Fancy neurosurgeon wasn't uptight!
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