Pony Party: You Want to What???

     Welcome to a very special edition of Pony Party, brought to you by the losers at the Hollywood Foreign Press Association (HFPA), who currently have nothing better to do than hang around a horse barn. Normally, we would still be basking in the reflected glow of the overdressed ordeal celebrating professional incest known as the Golden Globe Awards. But nooooo – the HFPA had to cave in to a bunch of writers!  

    Seriously, HFPA members, have you ever met a writer — or even seen one in person?  They’re a bunch of weirdos who spend all their time thinking about serial commas, gerund phrases and reflexive pronouns. What are you afraid of – that they might give you a paper cut? Throw a pencil at you? Spell your name wrong? Here’s a clue: the word “writer” comes from the Old Norse “haukur dorgeirsson guðlaugsson” which translates loosely as “spends all day in pajamas pretending to work.”

     Anyways, we’re not intimidated by a bunch of good-for-nothing writers around here, so on with the show! This week’s topic: Necessity really is the mother of invention. Out of necessity, I have decided to invent something that makes it impossible for the human brain to recognize specific phrases. Example: Mine will be programmed not to hear “blind date” or its euphemisms — “There’s someone you should meet,” “I think you’ll really like him,” or the kiss of death — “You two are perfect for each other!” When these phrases are spoken, my brain will just go blank, not that that’s unusual, but lately hearing people speak these words has made my hair stand on end, and to be honest, it’s just not a good look for me.

    Back story: I’m at home, quietly minding my own business (probably staring at the wall or something equally exciting), when my friend Casey calls and says there’s someone she wants me to meet (down, hair, get down!). First of all, Casey is on husband number four, and these two could teach Whitney and Bobby a few things about domestic disputes, so clearly this part of her “Operation Misery Loves Company” effort. Plus, having been down Blind Date Street a few times before – and having gotten car-sick every single time — I go all girly on her and burst into tears.

    “Oh, come on!” she says. “He’s different!” (Note: “different” in this context should not be interpreted to mean anything. It’s just a distraction designed to keep the listener from crying even harder.)

    “He’s sophisticated, great sense of humor, and I’m pretty sure he’s not an axe murderer.” That Casey — what a wit! Well, okay, but could we talk on the phone first?

     First Call: He sounds nice (don’t they all?) and says he’d really like to get to know me better (who wouldn’t?). And then, just as I’m starting to think he actually is different, he utters the fatal words: “There’s a new restaurant at the beach we could try. It’s supposed to be the bomb.”  

    Oh. No. No no no. He didn’t actually say “the bomb,” did he? Hello, Museum of Outdated Slang Spoken by a Person Trying too Hard to Sound Hip calling! Did someone there just say “the bomb”? Wow, that hasn’t happened in quite a while. You’re not going to go out with him, are you? Good, because he’ll probably be saying things like “Word!” and “Cuz that’s just how I roll!” all evening.

    Second call: He sounds okay — until he says “I thought we’d go to Vegas and catch a ten o’clock show, then have dinner and just hang out.”  

    Oh. No. No no no. I’m sorry, sir, but you have reached a wrong number. This is not 1-800-IMASLUT or 1-888-GETLAID. Please hang up and try your call again.

    Because no matter how nice you sound, everybody knows the last plane out of Las Vegas is at 10 P.M., and I am not spending the night with a total stranger and frankly, neither should you.  And one more thing: Please try to remember that “separated” does not mean the same thing as “totally freaking desperate.”  

    Third call: Forget it. I’m not even writing this one down, other than one word: Ewwwww!  

    Fourth call: He sounds nice (some of us never learn). We talk for a while. And then he says, “So let’s get together. What would you like to do?”

     What???? He’s asking me??? Hello, fairy godmother here – this is good. Keep him talking.  

    Me: “Oh, I don’t know. Do you think they still have bumper cars at the Santa Monica Pier?

    Him: (long pause, during which I wait for the inevitable dial tone) “You sure you want to do bumper cars? Because I am kind of known as the Mario Andretti of bumper cars.”

    Me: (long pause, as it sinks in that I’m not listening to a dial tone) “Oh, yeah? Sez who? Maybe in your dreams, Mario!  

    Him: “Okay, that’s it — you’re on! Better start writing your concession speech right now, because they’re going to name that track after me when we’re done!”

    Whoa! It’s quite possible I am in love. Keep this up, honey, and you are so getting lucky. Too bad #4 was an imaginary conversation (just one of many lately, actually). In real life, my suggestions of a bumper car and/or miniature golf date have not been met with anything even close to enthusiasm.

    And you know what? That’s fine. One day, conversation number four (or a reasonable facsimile) will actually happen. Until then, I’ve got a list of never-fail excuses handy:      

    It might take a couple days to find a babysitter for the two sets of twins

    Should I score some crack or do you want to get it?

    Plus, the phrase-vaporizing invention is coming along nicely. It now ignores any mention of blind date unless these words are included: “He’s really rich and really, really old!”  

Finally, just a few words about last week’s Pony Party, an event that’s going to be very tough to top. Understandably, a certain someone who was instrumental in making it happen would no doubt prefer to remain anonymous, and of course we will honor that. I’m certainly not letting the nocatz out of the bag — no siree, not me. (Ladies, scroll down to the second comment in last week’s Pony Party, and enjoy the view!!!)

Of course, this makes me wonder: Guys, are you really going to let this brave soul stand alone? Wait – let’s rephrase that. Why let some other guy get all the attention from the blogosphere’s most buhdyacious babes? Gentlemen, fame is just a digital camera shot away! Don’t make you ask you twice!

    Warning: Do not rec the Pony Party. It goes straight to the ponies’ little heads, and they start demanding new contracts and bigger trailers and more hay, plus stylists to do their manes and hooves and then the lawyers get involved. People, we simply cannot afford all this right now, so if you’re itching to rec something, say “hey” (not “hay,” please!) and then giddy-up on over to the Front Page and Recommended and Recent Diaries, where you’ll find signs of intelligent life, something that will never appear here, at least not if I have anything to do with it.