Twisted Family Antics

I don’t drink very often, but if I’m with a bunch of uptight chicks playing Bunco I’ve got no choice.

I was introduced to this gaming folly of middle-class suburban American women just this year.  It’s a moronic dice throwing competition for simpletons.  Throw in $10 and you could win the massive amount of FORTY at the end of the night, which I did.

This new group has played three times total and I’ve won money every single time, the biggest pot twice.  I think I must be cheating.  Even though I’m quite competitive, beaming as I’m handed the cash, I feel oddly guilty.

These are not women I spend a lot of time with, several of them I don’t know at all.  Some I like, some I don’t.  Some grind against my last nerve.  Two are a couple of my best friends.  You’re constantly changing partners and moving from table to table, so it’s not the kind of thing where you can hang with your cronies and ignore the bitches.  You’re forced to interact with everyone.

However, it’s also easy to just throw the dice, stare at the table, count the number of times you roll the desired result, and never speak.  Several of the women tell nothing of themselves, like timid little bunny rabbits.

I can’t stand this.

So after an hour of drinking and rolling I finally asked a table of total strangers, “Anyone interested in sharing a hidden sexual secret?  Quick!  Do tell.”

Nope.  They just looked at me with a touch of fear in their eyes.

How do people make it through life without conversation?  And I don’t mean talking about your children’s soccer coach, the last PTO meeting or how much the price of groceries has increased recently.

I like talking shit.  I want the details of your most embarrassing moments.  I’d like to know who you are, why you think you became that way, a full-on therapy session.  And then I want you to ask about me, too.  By the time we are done, I will love you no matter what because you become a real person to me.  I will be able to fully acknowledge that we are of the same species, suffering the same daily joys & struggles.

I did not get too far with this group.  I broached the subject of anal sex, but no one would bite.  Out of 12 women there’s no way one of them has not allowed something to travel the wrong direction in her dainty derriere.  Why the secrets & shame?  They’d all be jumping up & down to impress the ladies with their cruise experience or European vacation; it’s just a different type of trip.

I talked about the guy who showed me his penis in the mirror of his big rig while flying down the road at 70 mph.  But I did not tell the whole story.  They would not have been able to deal with it.  But I WANTED to tell the whole story.

As I said to one of the girls, “I’m 47, soon to be 48.  I need to tell my stories cause I’ll be dead soon!”  She looked at me like I was insane.  I didn’t care.

My friend J., who had this soiree at her home, wants to give up the information.  The more she drinks, the looser she gets.  Unfortunately when she’s not drinking she’s worrying about things like what her daughter does at my house on overnights.  Stuff like watching unsupervised YouTube videos and late night TV programs that feature limbless people.  Hers is a schizophrenic experience, trying to be a good girl when her heart begs her to be bad.  I can’t help but push her in that direction.

My other girlfriend, T., refuses to speak at all in a crowd.  I am desperate to share my bitchy thoughts with her but cannot because we are all in such close quarters.  It is a struggle for me to bite my tongue and not mention things like, “Did you notice A. has suddenly sprouted over-sprayed helmet hair?”  Or “Why do you like that girl with the big breasts & loud voice?  She grates against my last nerve.”

Confirming my prior beliefs, I began to like that girl after she mentioned the fact that her husband gave her a large and noticeable hickey that women were remarking about on the playground last week.  YES!  If you tell me your foibles, express your real self, my heart will melt.

As for the bitch who wanted to question homeschooling details, due to that fact that she believes I’m a total asshole for doing such a thing, fuck her.  I wish I had said something to the effect of, “I realize you want to focus on my parenting, since yours is such a freaking disastrous mess at the moment.” 

Instead, I purposely became more obnoxious and asked if anyone had engaged in public masturbation. 

I mentioned that my daughter taught me how to make a ring tone last week that said, “Get up off your fat ass and answer the phone, you big bitch!”  (Seriously, any time your kid laughs that hard it’s a magical moment.)

My wretched nemesis was not impressed, as she twisted her nose up like Samantha on Bewitched.  I did not grow to love her, either.

In other words, if you’re a tight-assed bitch, just trying to get under my skin, I will walk away happy that your $10 is in my pocket.

If only she would admit to a bout of vaginal warts or the misery of dating after a bad divorce, the sexual overtures of men who believe she’s a transvestite because of the pictures in her dating profile.  Or maybe she could just admit that she’s terrified her own parenting is not what she dreamed it would be, which is why she’s hoping mine is even worse. 

We might become best friends.