Why is there no RWI?
I need more friends in my genre(s). I love my friends who specialize in sf/f and spec fic, but I feel weird being the only one in a critique group who doesn't write or even read either of those. I know my love of romance novels and children's books is kind of a running joke, and that's fine most of the time... but this isn't one of those times. It's kind of unhelpful.
IN OTHER NEWS: LOLARITY AT THE PORN STORE.
Thursdays are the new Fridays, which means that everyone goes out and gets their asses slizzered and then they all crawl into the porn store to annoy me at bar close. But sometimes bar close is hilarious. Case in point:
Drunk Douche stumbled into the store last night and flopped onto my counter. "Where's the house... with the women in it?" He slurred.
"There are a lot of houses around here, buddy, and I'm sure some of them have women in them." Trufax: there are house parties on Thursday nights.
Drunk Douche's face lit up. "Where?" He asked.
"Well, if you just walk out the front door, there are tons of houses."
So he stumbled back out the door. I, of course, being the snarky little bitch that I am, proceeded to discuss this with my equally snarky Twitter friends. "I'm not sure if he was just really drunk and stupid, or if he was drunk and trying to cleverly ask for a brothel," I wrote. "I should have sold him an arcade token. That would have been hiLArious."
And then he came back. He asked me for a phone book, which I obliged him, and then proceeded to grill me on how to look up hookers in the phone book.
Let me repeat that: he was trying to look up hookers in the phone book.
It was hard to keep a straight face.
He was really drunk, or maybe high, because the phone book was just beyond his comprehension.
"What is..." he mumbled, pointing at the menus.
I loled inside.
"How do I find..." he collapsed into the pages.
I clutched my phone to my chest, trying to keep from falling over in hysterical giggles.
"What is the local service called?" he asked.
"Yeah... I can't help you there, buddy."
He looked me dead in the face and said, as if it took a lot of effort (which it probably did), "Where do I find escorts?"
I shook my head. "Again, I can't help you." (In truth, I probably could; there is an escort service down the road.)
"What good are you?!" he shouted. "God!"
"Do you want an arcade token? I'm pretty sure there are some guys in the back..." I offered.
"I'm not a fag!" he yelled.
"AAAAAND that's your cue to leave!" I said.
As he ambled around the store back out the door, he knocked over several of my lingerie displays, and actually broke some of them.
MOTHERFUCKER I WILL CUT YOU. I JUST PUT THOSE DISPLAYS UP.
Our store sold the most lube out of all the stores (yay?), so they sent us a bunch of prizes. My boss split them into little prize baggies for all of us and, I assume, gave us prizes he thought we would appreciate. One of the guys had joke boxers and some run-of-the-mill barely legal porn, and I got the big blue vibrator, some cooling lube (omgwtf whyyy), and a tank top that says Your Boyfriend Drinks Because You're A Bitch. Boss kept the gay porn out of our prize stash and put it on our bulletin board saying that since he figured none of us would want it (!!!) he would give it away, in the hopes of turning an unhappy customer into a happy customer. He clearly doesn't know me well. I put a note on it saying, "Or you could have given it to your good friend Cordelia, who would love to swap out her cooling lube for gay porn." There's no replacement note yet. I would rather have gay porn than cooling lube. Cooling lube feels weird.
IN OTHER NEWS: LOLARITY AT THE PORN STORE.
Thursdays are the new Fridays, which means that everyone goes out and gets their asses slizzered and then they all crawl into the porn store to annoy me at bar close. But sometimes bar close is hilarious. Case in point:
Drunk Douche stumbled into the store last night and flopped onto my counter. "Where's the house... with the women in it?" He slurred.
"There are a lot of houses around here, buddy, and I'm sure some of them have women in them." Trufax: there are house parties on Thursday nights.
Drunk Douche's face lit up. "Where?" He asked.
"Well, if you just walk out the front door, there are tons of houses."
So he stumbled back out the door. I, of course, being the snarky little bitch that I am, proceeded to discuss this with my equally snarky Twitter friends. "I'm not sure if he was just really drunk and stupid, or if he was drunk and trying to cleverly ask for a brothel," I wrote. "I should have sold him an arcade token. That would have been hiLArious."
And then he came back. He asked me for a phone book, which I obliged him, and then proceeded to grill me on how to look up hookers in the phone book.
Let me repeat that: he was trying to look up hookers in the phone book.
It was hard to keep a straight face.
He was really drunk, or maybe high, because the phone book was just beyond his comprehension.
"What is..." he mumbled, pointing at the menus.
I loled inside.
"How do I find..." he collapsed into the pages.
I clutched my phone to my chest, trying to keep from falling over in hysterical giggles.
"What is the local service called?" he asked.
"Yeah... I can't help you there, buddy."
He looked me dead in the face and said, as if it took a lot of effort (which it probably did), "Where do I find escorts?"
I shook my head. "Again, I can't help you." (In truth, I probably could; there is an escort service down the road.)
"What good are you?!" he shouted. "God!"
"Do you want an arcade token? I'm pretty sure there are some guys in the back..." I offered.
"I'm not a fag!" he yelled.
"AAAAAND that's your cue to leave!" I said.
As he ambled around the store back out the door, he knocked over several of my lingerie displays, and actually broke some of them.
MOTHERFUCKER I WILL CUT YOU. I JUST PUT THOSE DISPLAYS UP.
Our store sold the most lube out of all the stores (yay?), so they sent us a bunch of prizes. My boss split them into little prize baggies for all of us and, I assume, gave us prizes he thought we would appreciate. One of the guys had joke boxers and some run-of-the-mill barely legal porn, and I got the big blue vibrator, some cooling lube (omgwtf whyyy), and a tank top that says Your Boyfriend Drinks Because You're A Bitch. Boss kept the gay porn out of our prize stash and put it on our bulletin board saying that since he figured none of us would want it (!!!) he would give it away, in the hopes of turning an unhappy customer into a happy customer. He clearly doesn't know me well. I put a note on it saying, "Or you could have given it to your good friend Cordelia, who would love to swap out her cooling lube for gay porn." There's no replacement note yet. I would rather have gay porn than cooling lube. Cooling lube feels weird.