My evening started off by trying on a bathing suit at TJ Maxx while juggling my cell phone and the friend giving me the Sox play-by-play. "Motherfucker" was uttered frequently, and only once because that bathing suit made me look like a sausage. As I continued my shopping/Sox extravaganza, I was joined by Melanie, and we got to celebrate Big Papi's heroics together. At the Maxx. It seemed totally appropriate.
We switched venues and began a quest for matching underwear at Marshall's. I don't know why we felt the need for matching underwear to commemorate our evening, but we did. And we found the perfect pair: blue with white polka dots and pink trim and a little butterfly cut-out on the hip. I mean, seriously, the perfect fucking underwear. Tragically, we could only find one pair. Melanie and I were both real sad.
So we went to Chili's to drown our sorrows in as many Presidentes as they would allow, and that's when the whole evening came together: Behind me sat the world's strongest dancing jimmy-leg motherfucker. Sweet mother of god! My whole booth was shaking. I couldn't believe it. Two (somewhat large) men were sitting behind me, so I needed to determine who was guilty of the jimmy-leg. I did a quick look around, but neither man's upper body was shaking. Fuck. Melanie intervened at this point and threw her knife on the floor behind me, so I surreptitiously leaned down and looked around to see who had the shaky leg. Bastard! It was the one right behind me. Of course. Interfering with my enjoyment of much tequila and discussion of the perfect panties. He needed to die. Quickly. While Melanie and I discussed various methods of torture and death, the punks finished their meal and left. Pussies.
All in all, a perfect evening. Except for the bathing suit part.
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