Maggie Shnayerson

Is there anything more abrasive than having to listen to an uncomfortably close drunk white forty-something with blond iced tips and a marginal fake bake dressed head to toe in Thomas Pink slurring to his male friend about how “Ssssan Francisscoo gay” their third friend is and how “totally annoying, oh my God,” it is? I tell you that at this very moment in time, there is not. I always have the urge to tell guys of this particular breed that their women think they’re weak and they look like they’re about to vomit. Generally one of both these things is true and stopping myself from doing it is like being back in church, digging my nails into my palms to stop from screaming “Cunt! Cunt! Cunt!” at the top of my eight-year-old lungs. Which I’m sure would have proved immensely disconcerting to the Holy Trinity, among other persons.

Also? Please shoot me and really anyone, straight in the head if you hear them discussing right next to you, thank you very much, outside of the inside of their heads the immense woes associated with managing their current losses on their “$8 million home, a $2 million home in the country, and $10 million in the bank with a yearly lifestyle of seven to a million bucks a year.” It’s probably a really good thing I’m not carrying my .22 right now. For this woman’s sake, I hope the guys hung, because he’s a mind-suck.