DANGLING PLUMSACK

I met the rudest human being on the planet yesterday. I suppose I was aware that that level of asshole existed, but I don't think I've ever quite experienced it first-hand before now. A friend took My Girl and I to a Sunday barbecue slash birthday party in the Hollywood Hills. He warned us before we went that the hosts would not be very welcoming, but there would be an abundance of food. So, dragging our diminished expectations with us, we entered the extravagant domicile. As we strolled in, Randy, the world's largest dillhole, greeted us wearing a XXXXL black tank top to mercifully cover his enormous torso and tiny little black workout shorts to support his dangling plumsack. Two huge black dogs greeted us with infinitely more warmth than Randy, who shook my friend's hand, shook My Girl's hand as my friend introduced her, then barely made eye contact with me. I was petting one of the black beasts at the time and had to move around him to shake Randy's hand. By the time I approached him (a matter of seconds) with an extended hand, he was already greeting another couple, shaking both their hands, as I continued to extend mine. Shockingly, Randy never made it back to my hand. An unmistakable, unequivocal, unceremonious snub. Randy clearly saw my hand out there, holding firm in the tainted air of Hollywood Hills, and he purposely ingnored it. I have no idea why.

I came to find out from my friend that Randy was a professional party planner. My friend and his partner had deejayed an overindulgent birthday party for some crappy sitcom creator, thrown by none other than Randy, the world's largest dillhole. I never did find out just how my friend knew the fake-breasted blonde birthday girl, but once he told me she lived in the house with Randy, the pieces made enough sense that I ended the line of questioning. So, with a professional party planner behind the wheel, you had to figure that this barbecue would soon kick into high gear. As more and more people arrived, I began to notice that it was mostly middle-aged gay men and their little bitch boys. There were very few girls there, and the ones who did attend weren't attractive enough to draw attention away from the big-fake-titted birthday blonde. There was a sort of buffet table set up, featuring salad and taquitos and chips, salsa, and guacamole. Outside, there was a long table with beer, soda, water, and more chips, but no dips. There were lots of round tables with blue tablecloths spread around the patio area. In one corner was a giant multi-colored inflatable Twister board. All the way in the opposite corner, a hot tub and some chaise lounges. In a room opening out onto the back patio, there sat three lonely tables draped in pink tableclothes. I did not see one person use those pathetic indoor tables once during the entire party. The middle of the patio showcased the pool, inexplicably filled with primary-colored floats and toys and gigantic beach balls.

One of the first people we met was an aggressively friendly, sexually charged bitch boy. He seemed bisexual or omnisexual, and his vibe was a bit overwhelming. We settled at one of the blue tableclothed tables on the Twister side of the pool. We ate chips and salsa and guacamole and strawberries and drank some while we gazed around the party and waited for it to take off. The more we looked around, the more we realized we were in The Land of Forgotten Fags. It was easily the ugliest crowd of people ever assembled at a Hollywood party. Nobody had any life to them either. There was no vibe at all. If this party were in Bakersfield, I would have thought it was cool. But I say with absolute confidence that this was one of the worst parties ever thrown in the glamor-filled hills of Hollywood. Nobody played Twister, barely anybody went in the pool, and for the majority of the day, the hot tub was filled with a variety of alpha fags and bitch boys. My Girl and I found solace in the chaise lounge corner during the sunny Sunday afternoon. We made each other laugh and engaged a few strange people around us in conversation. Lameness everywhere, highlighted by a surreal trip into the house to get some wine, water, and chocolate cake. From my corner of the patio, I heard some people cheering inside. Thinking a group had gathered to watch the Laker game, I ventured in to find out what was going on. A highly unattractive overweight woman with red-dyed hair was playing the piano poorly and butchering the vocals to "The Rose." Starved for any form of entertainment they could get, the faggiest of the forgotten fags stood in rapt attention, listening to this dank diva wail. Some of them may have been weeping, for I thought I saw Randy, the world's largest dillhole, tearing up as he leaned his enormous torso on the aching piano. Finally, some of my friend's friends showed up, grilled some steaks, and brought a much-needed breath of fresh air to the gasping patio party. Considering the alternatives, I was even thrilled to talk to my friend's deejay partner, who I always found to be kind of uptight. I happily hung out with he and his Brazilian wife for awhile before the sound of kids caught my attention.

I got up and walked over to find my friend jumping up and down on the inflatable Twister board with three little girls around eight to eleven years old. I immediately took off my Adidas Sambas and starting bouncing along with them. My added weight and the height of my jumps caused them to jump even higher. I continued to jump with the girls after my friend stepped off. They started baiting me and teasing me, telling me that there were no grown-ups allowed on the giant Twister. I insisted I was still a kid. They proceeded to list the reasons why I wasn't a kid: I was a hairy stinky grown-up with too much facial hair and back hair and stomach hair and not enough hair on my head and some gray hair in my beard. Kids can be so cruel. But I played along and it turned into a wrestling match. The girls climbed all over me and slapped me upside the head and in the face, with the strong one even putting me in a pretty decent chokehold. I tossed them around like ragdolls and played the grown-up villain while My Girl and my friend and some others looked on. I got my friend to spell me for a bit while I caught my breath, then went back in for more. The father of two of the girls approached them and told them they had five more minutes to play before it was time to go. The girls negotiated ten more minutes and battered my body some more until it was finally time to go. As the father led them out, one of them tapped me on the head as she walked by. The father patted me on the back without saying anything and they were gone. The little girls and My Girl and my friend and I easily had the best time of any afternoon party attendee. I chatted with my friend's friends for a little longer until they too decided to call it a day. My friend and My Girl and I were about to do the same when My Girl suggested we go in the hot tub. Within minutes, we were Jacuzziing.

Shortly after we began soaking, a late twentysomething frat boy from Manhattan Beach got in with his soft-spoken Asian friend. And then the balloon-breasted birthday blonde joined us. A couple of the bodacious co-host's friends hung out at the edges and dipped their feet in. It seemed at least two of the three girls wanted my friend, who took to rubbing the bosomy blonde's toes. My Girl and I did our best to push the boundaries and pimp out my friend, though it was pretty obvious that one of the girls with her feet in the whirlpool dug him too. The other friend on the outside seemed to be more into My Girl and I, who were clearly the two most entertaining people in the pool. One of the girls was an actress turned writer/director who was telling us all about her feature that she was premiering at Cannes. One of them was a massage therapist at a wellness center in my neighborhood. And I never really found out exactly what capacity the birthday blonde was employed by Warner Brothers, although from all appearances, it very well may have been as a floater. As the evening was winding down, I motivated everyone to quickly dive into the pool. There the primary-colored oversized pool toys finally came into play, although only long enough to have a picture snapped before we all jumped back into the Jacuzzi. After a few last minutes of luxury lounging, we toweled off and began to say our goodbyes. My Girl and I told the massage therapist we wanted to get together. After wishing the bountiful bleach-blonde a happy birthday for the last time, she hugged us and invited us to come over for a more intimate dinner party featuring a bottle of Patrone and some more hot-tubbing. Pretty hard to resist that.

On the way out the door, My Girl spotted Randy sitting on the couch talking to some forgotten faggot friends of his. There was a momentary lull in the conversation as My Girl said "Thanks for having us" to Randy. Without missing a beat, Randy dove right back into conversation, intenionally disregarding My Girl. I meekly uttered "Thanks." No acknowledgement whatsoever. Blondie walked us out and hugged each of us again as the dogs rubbed up against us to say goodbye in their own way. Those warm gestures spoke volumes considering their cold-hearted master is the biggest dillhole in the universe.