10
DINNER WITH SCHMUCKS
by Wealthy Rich ·
“I don’t believe you don’t believe me,” I responded.
Thus began one of the most asinine arguments I’ve ever had with another human being.
The Colombian and I were supposed to have dinner with some of her friends this past weekend, and I made it clear when the plans were first discussed that I had no interest in going. I have no problem with her friends. Their husbands on the other hand, I actually kind of can’t stand. And by “kind of can’t stand,” I mean “really can’t stand.”
I’d met the two husbands in question a couple of weeks ago at yet another self-thrown birthday party at a lounge. While the women split off into their own little group to discuss whatever it is women discuss when they’re alone together (Oprah? yeast infections? I don’t know), I was stuck listening to a couple of Wall Streeters share their views on the economy.
“Hussein is gonna fuck our shit up, if he’s not stopped” said a short, paunchy overpaid Goldman Sachs employee, wearing a watch that cost more than the car I drove in college.
“Fuckin’ Hussein, man! Mother fuckin’ Hussein! How the fuck did he even get elected?” asked the other height challenged Westchester resident, wearing an expensive suit that was a size or two too big, and looked like his mother bought it for him when he was twelve so he’d grow into it by his Bar-Mitzvah.
“Someone needs to take this motherfucker out,” the first guy exclaimed right before I excused myself and walked away. I didn’t want to hear something that would lead to me being subpoenaed, so I left the two balding Napoleans with the seven figure incomes at the table, and spent the next twenty minutes nursing a Sprite at the bar. So it wasn’t surprising that the Colombian refused to believe that I was experiencing gastrointestinal distress less than an hour before we were supposed to meet her friends and their racist, plotting husbands.
“All of a sudden you have diarrhea?” she asked suspiciously, after she forced me to get graphic by not believing my “I don’t feel well” excuse.
“That’s usually how it happens. It’s kind of an all of a sudden thing.”
“You’re lying!”
“You want me to text you a picture?”
Silence.
“Just take something and come.”
“I can’t leave the house in this state.”
“You knew you didn’t wanna come and now you’re using this as an excuse.”
“I know it seems that way, but the fact remains, I ain’t leaving the apartment.”
“Fine!”
“Fine!”
She went alone, and in an ironic twist of fate, I was spared from experiencing filthy nastiness spewing out of two assholes.
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