Ehren Brings Class To A Social Gathering

Over this past weekend, something occurred to me: I have no business being brought out in public. Seriously, somewhere on the line, my parents made an awful mistake when chose to stop locking me in the basement. No where is this clearer than in my interactions at public gatherings.

Against my better judgment, I attended a Halloween party on Saturday. It was a typical sort of affair: pumpkins, candy, and about a 50 girls in outfits that would make a stripper blush. Seriously ladies, it’s not called Whoroween.

While there, I ran into a friend who introduced me to some acquaintances of hers. Seeing as it was an open bar affair, a fact I taken full advantage of, I was feeling unusually festive. And loose-lipped. Considering that the last time I’d been drunk I proposed marriage, one would have thought I’d learned my lesson. And one would have been wrong.

One of the people my friend introduced me to was a thoroughly inebriated girl dressed in a Greek robe. It was obvious that my friend was setting the court for a lay-up. All I had to do was trot down and lay the ball in the net. Just as obvious, however, was the fact that I have the social skills of a chimp on crank.

“What are you supposed to be?” I inquired.
“I’m a Goddess.” She answered.
“Goddess of what?” I asked.
“Anything you want me to be” she purred, lighting up a cigarette.
“That’s some shoddy planning on your part.” I retorted. “I’m guessing from your cigarette that you’re the goddess of cancer.” Where-upon I began speaking with a fake voice-box.
“Don’t do that.” She begged. “A lady with a voice-box came into my job the other day. She had one of those holes in her neck and it started bleeding when she spoke to me. It was so gross.”
“Do you have her number?” I asked. “I’d like to wrangle a three-way: you, me, and tracheotomy girl. One man: seven holes.”

For some strange reason, she didn’t wind up going home with me.

While talking to a guy dressed in a jogger’s suit, he confided that he found one girl at the party extremely attractive. He’d been eye-raping her for the better part of the night and was obviously, not going to make a move unless pushed. So, having already irretrievably fucked over my chances at companionship, I turned my attention towards crashing the personal life of everyone else around me.

I approached the girl and said, “Hey, how’d you like to meet my friend.”
“Who’s he?” she asked.
“He’s the rapist in the hoodie over there.”
“You mean that’s his costume…or he’s actually a rapist?”
“Only one way to find out. But he did ask me to put something in your drink. What are you dressed as, anyway?”
“Ummm…I’m a football player. Can’t you tell?” She was getting considerably less receptive to my presence at this point, so I decided to swing for the fences.
“Well, I’m not sure what position your costume requires you to play, but I’m sure my friend has a few he'd be happy to show you.”
“I have to go.”
“Well,” I shouted after her. “Just watching you walk away, I can tell you’re not a tight end.”

Later, I was hanging out with a group of people while my friend told the story of "The Pinky Guy." She was just getting to the part where she confided in the audience that she almost never picked up guys for sex and that she was, at heart, a good girl.

"Isn't that right, Ehren?" she asked.
"What did you say?" I replied. "I'm sorry. I don't speak 'Whore.'"

What can I say? I’m the king of class, baby. And if you don’t believe me, just check out this picture from Saturday night.



I was walking around when a middle-aged guy and his asian wife came up to me.

"I just love your costume" he said. "Where'd you get it?"
"It's mail-order." I replied. "Just like your wife."

Elvis has left the building. Thank you. Thank you very much.