Oh, it’s going to be a shortish entry tonight, because I’ve been out debauching. Well, nerd-debauching; I went out with some friends and played bar trivia. And, incredibly, WE WON!
As the bespectacled geeks who Frink around the weird server room might awkwardly exclaim, “W00t.” Our team o’ five took in $175, so I was basically handsomely paid to go out drinking and eating terrible bar food. Get the special of the night: “3 tacos for 2 bucks!” Are you kidding me? I just won over thirty bucks! GIVE ME FORTY-FIVE TACOS, STAT!
The categories were . . . meh. Let’s see: War (they named a battle, you named the war); Beer (slam-dunk); Science and Math (in which we had to calculate a fucking kilometers to miles conversion, no mean feat even when you haven’t been drinking); Lead Singers (audio trivia; they played the song, you named the lead singer–and one guy on our team knew who the fucking yowler was for Steppenwolf, unbelievably); Geography; Americana; 20th Century History, and Acronyms (did you know that RADAR stood for “Radio Detection And Ranging”? Neither did we.) The one they left out at the last minute, which outraged me and this other total nerd was Books You Haven’t Read. Fucking bastards. I’ve read Infinite Jest and A Brief History of Time and The Corrections and Gravity’s Rainbow and all that shit; it’s what I did growing up while I was having no sex. I was ready for them to bring it on, but they gave me the old sandpaper handjob.
But no matter! WE WERE VICTORIOUS! It was the Lead Singers category that put us over the top; they coughed up seventeen songs and we got sixteen of them, including Hope Sandoval of Mazzy Star and Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. We did unfortunately miss Jack Russell from Great White, because we all thought it sounded like the dick-in-zipperesque frightened caterwauling of Vince Neil. Those hair metal bands were all grown in the same vat anyway and have since all been deconstructed into constituent parts and then painstakingly reassembled into next year’s shambling zombie models for the upcoming Tom’s of Finland calendar. All that’s left is for the technicians to craft ghoulishly veiny penis replicas to shove down their leather pants, as years of sopranic shrieking have left their original unfortunate members shriveled and miserable from diverted blood loss.
And since I have just creeped myself right the fuck out, I’m going to bed. Thirty dollars richer. W00t. Glavin. And the hey hey hey I won.