Bubbly: ….. I hate it so much.
Disclaimed.
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I sit and watch tiredly as Craig and Kenny load crate upon crate of Sangria, Sunny D (for Stan, of course) and dark liquor into the trunk of Christophe's jet black '58 Olds, the Frenchman himself reading a discarded copy of Ladies Home Journal, Lady Gyllenhaal poking precariously out from his hoodie pocket.
I take note of the cornrows plaited along it's tiny, pink head. It also seems to be wearing hoop earrings.
So very gangsta.
I inspect my cell briefly, possibly thinking of hitting up my lady bug friend, again.
LMAO.
I'm really bored, to say the least, and in serious need of some nookie. My blonde (nuclear)bombshell is playing package-mover-guy right now, Stan is growing rooted to the sidewalk with fear like some demented, epileptic mushroom, and Craig and Christophe are both taken.
I think I need some excitement.
Why can't I be the slut I've always portrayed in Kenny's videos? You know, riding whip, plastic crown, raging promises of promiscuity and all?
Why? Who says I can't? What's trying gonna hurt?
It would open up a whole new sub-division of new things, like maybe anointing my head in baby oil gel and writhing upon the hood of Frenchie's car, or makin' out with my out-of-it bestie, or maybe even touching Craig?
Shudder.
For reasons made known, I decide to take this Kennification of my Jew psyche slowly.
Lesse, this whole Jew-to-Gigolo thing will take some serious mental breakdown. I think I'll start with lowering my vocabulary level to that of my counterparts:
"Uh."
There we go.
Huh.
I feel in tune with the community. Weird.
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The sky is turbulent and gray, and quite possibly, downright stormy, but Kenny and Stan INSISTED upon coming to get the booze now.
I dunno know why; something about Bebe's party being two days away, I think.
Kenny and Craig are speaking in panic-stricken, 'oh-my-god-we've-got-to-get-this-shit-done' voices, and Stan is very hysterically spilling out his emo-fucking-tastic feelings out to Wendy via cell-phone:
"We only have approximately 48 hours, Wends!" (I almost feel like inserting a few 'bejeebers' -es [what? in there, but without risk of making my best buddy sound lame is like literally impossible. I mean, he's already started on his fourth inhaler this month. Damn.)
And me?
Completely unfazed. It doesn't matter if I come three hours late to her goddamned party, because everyone already knows that Bebe's parties only start when I get there.
Yeah, she's that obsessive. But what can I say? I seem to have this weirdo mind control power when it comes to slutty blondes.
But, I might try to come earlier. She always seems to get fussy when I don't show up.
The last time, I was temporarily paralyzed after being hit by a certain pink Volkswagen (I think the license plate read 'BL0-ND 69') and dragged to my house, my parents being (in)conveniently out.
I suffered three whole days of trying to wash Bebe's 'lovestains' out of my sheets, which happened to be coral pink and sweet-scented for some reason. I don't know, but I think that girl secretes Juicy Jelly Jam lip gloss from her every, artificially minimized pore.
I gave up trying to get the stains out after the fourth rinse cycle, so I just had Ike's 'cat' (some nomadic, pitiable yellow creature with decaying teeth ) chew at the pink spots until the all sugary flavoring came out. It made it a lot easier to wash, and the 'cat' got its meal.
And to think that my parents could've possibly saved me. It turns out that they were out on one of Ike's kleptomaniacal 'vaudevilles', or 'sprees' (my parents basically let my brother run around Wal-Mart, stealing random items. He has an hour to keep the stuff and live out his 'high', before they go back and return everything. They call it 'therapy', and it's pretty fucked up.)
Anyways...
Sick shit.
Christophe walks over to me, a cigarette poised between his 'oh-sho-sheckshy' (as Kenny so kindly put it) wine-stained lips. "Zees eez amusing, no?"
I turn to watch as Kenny and Craig begin to fight over the last crate, both foaming at the mouth with pupils somehow dilated.
"Dumb beetches." (A/N: Gaaah! Don't kill me, I just had to do it!)
The Frenchman picks up a rock, and after a few brief seconds of deciding which dumbass to throw it at, he very deftly pitches it at Craig's uncapped, unruly brown mop (much akin to Kenny's, except shorter).
"Shit!" The vulgar brunette lets out a bewildered howl, his blonde partner looking around dazed as to where this wicked hell-stone could've possibly come from.
"Jesus, man!"
Craig notices the rock on the pavement a few feet away from him and frowns, triumphantly flipping it the bird.
Kenny laughs, turning towards Craig. "Dude, you're so palsy right now."
(palsy: In Ken speak, it can convey: Definition 1. basically, an either stoned, or even drunk, person . Often used to describe Kenny and/or Craig. Definition 2. A more casual use can convey either stupidity or ass-hattery. Definition 3. The name of Tweek's late goldfish, given to him by Craig as a sort of substitute for a promise ring. Oddly romantic, though. )
I turn to the sky, and stare blankly at a passing cloud.
"Huh."
I walk over to my spasto-fish of a best friend, pulling a bag of crack(ers) from my pocket and handing it to him.
A brief exchange of 'thanks, dude's and we stand there in silence. Hm.
I'm starting to think that this party will do me good.
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Bubbly: Mergh.