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| (or as I like to call it, a rebuttal)
[ring]
Works: "Guh. I. What? It's three-thirty in the morning."
Me: "Oh, shit. You know me. Clocks are meaningless. Time is just a human construct."
Works: "Fuuu...what is it?"
Me: "I was just wondering. If I got into a committed relationship with someone who actually mattered to me, at some point I'd have to stop having sex with my fluff on the side, right."
Works: "I...guh. Fucking obviously, V."
Me: "Right, so I was just wondering why you haven't."
Works: "Uhh...what?"
Me: "I was just wondering why you're still putting the momento futuerte in Stacy's sweet tramp canyon."
Works: "I...guh. At three in the morning, Vaccerelli? At three in the fucking morning?"
Me: "Well, I was just talking to Jareth earlier today and he was talking about you and the girlfriend and how you're all inseparable and gross roses-and-flowers-and-walks-on-the-Embarcadero. And then afterwards I was thinking about how while that's mostly true, you'd ditched out on her last Thursday, which was weird. Then I remember that Paul said you were helping Lewis with some mixing and it was in the late stages. But Lewis doesn't ever mix on Thursdays, because Wednesday is Coke Night over at his pad and he's too blasted to do anything coherent the next day. And Paul is notorious for being people's cover stories. He covered for me with the Cunt once, actually, when I was out and about with Val. He's just got a...trustworthy face!"
Works: "Vaccerelli, don't do this."
Me: "No, no, be proud of me. But the thing is, Paul wouldn't have to cover for you; you've already got a lady who you're fine and fit with. So then I started thinking if Paul was covering for you then something really big had to be up. Then it hits me; you're all on the moral up-and-up, so you really need cover; you wouldn't use Paul, that's too obvious. That'd throw everyone off, they'd think 'oh for once Paul is telling the truth'. But that kind of reverse-psychology doesn't really work."
Works: "I..."
Me: "So you hid it in plain sight. But who would you be ashamed of doing? Your exes are generally formidable, beautiful women that you're still in good communication with. You're not big on shady liasons and dingy girlfriend-poaching. So that leaves two; the bitchy blonde and the bitchier blonde. And you're not big on genuine shame, so it's obviously the bitchier blonde. Because you would have said something about it if it was just the bitchy blonde. The whole 'she's a good lay I'm having trouble controlling the urge to go off and make bad decisions', you'd give me that speil, I'll be all "Dworkowski is as human as the rest of us?!' and there'd be snideness and back-and-forth. But no, if you're actually ashamed but unable to help yourself...it's got to be Stacy. Just her. That one bookmark you refuse to take out of that chapter of your life."
Works: "..."
Me: "Well?"
Works: "I will never in life understand your reasoning or how you do that, but I feel sorry for anyone who is involved with you who tries to keep something from you, especially for your own sake."
Me: "Oh, you have no idea."
Works: "So are you proud of yourself now? You got all mister detective on something I wanted to deal with myself. Yes, I sleep with Stacy on occasion. Yes, I haven't gotten around to telling the girlfriend. Because what can I say? I'm shamefully weak for someone in my past? It hasn't been long enough for me to grow out of this masochistic addiction to her? That she uses it against me constantly for her own physical needs? That I am, in the end, just as stupid and weak about sex as everyone else?"
Me: "I'm very proud."
Works: [sigh]
Me: "Anyway, I saw 'The Box'. It's weird. Good...while nutty, and disturbing. I'd say give it a shot."
[click]
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| That's right -- Drakish!
Where the misogyny and objectification is more blatant than mancouch, the ethics are as questionable as a lawyer training Machiavelli in the art of the game, the endless bouncing back-and-forth of relentless egomania and embittered self-loathing runs free, the drinking is out of control, the sense of fashion exists in some bizarre tie-fetishist continuum and the tendency towards polysyllabic indulgences would blind an ivy league professor and there's more social/cinematic/outdated cultural referendums than anyone could comprehend with three wikipedias!
Aaaaaaand FUCK OFF!
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| [ring]
Me: "Hey-o."
Works: "You fucking miserable shithead. Someday the self-important assholes of the world will unite as one and build a shining golden goddamn statue in your legacy."
Me: "Here's hoping...but what prompted that, exactly?"
Works: "I got your text about your date and I was about to say something about fish in the sea and shit, when it occurs to me for the past four months, you've done nothing but screw yourself silly with insanely hot women and then bitch about how you don't have a girlfriend."
Me: "Well, uh."
Works: "You're in this bizarre sort of fucked-up Californication-level over-sexed self-loathing pissant self-obsessed writerly obnoxiousness where you don't realize just how screwed up your bullshit is. Do you? Do you? I have friends who would give up half their central nervous system for a handjob from some of the women you've been making horizontal mambo with, meanwhile you whine incessantly about not having someone in your life to appreciate you."
Me: "It's a...lot more complicated than that."
Works: "No! No it's not! Just because you like living without justification or accepting social ramifications doesn't mean the people around you are as equally morally adrift! You don't get to have your cake and bitch it doesn't have the frosting you want when you're crowding the dessert cart."
Me: "...you know, you're dating a hot piece of ass right now, I'm not sure you can really take the high road with this."
Works: "Oh, like you could ever take a high road. Plus, you know I'm not doing it out of jealousy, really ."
Me: "Look, you know, there's a long, twisted river separating the lands of the "laid" and the mystical kingdom of the "liked", and I'm just trying -- "
Works: "I don't care about any of that. I'm just telling you, getting into a massive personal sulk and going off and brooding to Nick Cave while beautiful women are persistently up for putting the spurs to you is just a big fat championship-level load of bullshit. Suck it up. You'll meet someone. Just stop being a broody little antagonistic bitch and be patient. It'll happen. You're charming when you're not doing the whole "I am such a clever asshole" routine. And eventually you'll find someone."
Me: "Who are you, my fuckin' mother?"
Works: "I think your mother is more concerned with you being twenty-five and unmarried than she is about you violating the sacred tenets of Man Code."
Me: "True on that. Anyway; if you're done touring the lecture circuit of Vaccerelli's Humanistic Failures; you wanna get the gang together and go see The Box?"
Works: "Is it about Cameron Diaz's vagina dentata?"
Me: "I don't believe so."
Works: "Let me think about it."
[click]
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| [drinking at Edinburgh]
Me: "...so yeah, that's the plot of my blaxplotation epic: Vaccerelli Jones, Negrotalian For Hire."
Works: "You're fucked up, man."
Me: "Aren't we all." [knocks one back]
Works: "Yeah...speaking of, why is it when someone's "discovering themselves again" or shit like that, it always just includes slutting out and drugging up?"
Me: "That's obvious; sex and drugs are the two cheapest, fastest, most available highs there are. And it's real easy to just forget --"
Works: "You know what, I don't want to talk about this."
Me: "-- what? Why?"
Works: "This is just going to turn into one of those things where you're insightful but unnecessarily harsh and have a clever mean-spirited monologue, then you figure out who and what I'm talking about somehow using some creepy logic and intuition no one but you can understand, then you'll have some high-and-mighty opinion on them, and I'll get pissed off, and round and round it goes."
Me: "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Dworkowski?"
Works: "Don't you play naive with me. The thing where you use some creepy, inhuman lateral thinking to get into some creepy psychic-latent superpower of deduction, you get all insane and specific and start jumping to all sorts of assholish conclusions. It's annoying as shit."
Me: "Oh. Yeah. That. Well, what did you want to talk about?"
Works: "Uh...women?"
Me: "Oh, that's what we always talk about."
Works: "Music?"
Me: "Not particularly."
Works: "You just want to drink and sit here and insult each other?"
Me: "That's the spirit, you dumb polack cunt."
Works: "...bartender, I need more bourbon!"
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| You know, if there's anything on the internet I personally dig a lot, it's that weird, over-the-top hateful, self-aware, self-referential backlash humor that pervades after any popular demonstration of a rudimentary video edit or a witheringly tired old meme.
 Which is entertaining, because like everything else on the internet, it creates it's own subculture of parodies and haters, who in turn create their own reflection of likeminded parodies and haters, who in turn...
...oh, there's that headache!
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