"Are You and Jack Still Together?"

Monday evening my boyfriend Jack and I went down to Professor Thom's (a Redsox Bar on 2nd Avenue) to help our friend Melinda celebrate her 30th birthday. After the baseball game aired it was time for the trivia contest. For those of you not familiar with trivia contests let me explain. Trivia contests are a type of question and answer game where people who are unsatisfied with their lives-- because they feel a sense of intellectual and cultural superiority towards most of the world, and yet find themselves having to answer to very dim supervisors at their mentally non-stimulating jobs--compete with one another to see who knows the most information on subjects that the rest of World finds pointless, like current events and math.

We, Melinda's friends, formed a power house trivia team. She named us the "Twat Factory."* We kicked ass. My boy lead us to victory in the categories of " world geography," corn "cartels," and "polythesistic peoples holding on to their existance by a thread." That last category Jack was the only one in the bar who knew any of the answers. I knew answers to most of the music questions.

For knowing the most trivial of information "Twat Factory" won a pair of tickets to see Poison (a hair band from the 80s) at the Garden State Arts Center (this venue is now named after a bank.) There were nine of us on the team but only two tickets. Who would get the tickets? Obviously, the birthday girl got one ticket. But what about the other one? It was decided that the 8 of us would have to nacho-wrestle for it. Jack bowed out. He said there is too much senseless violence in the world right now and he did not want to be part of the problem. He suggested we draw straws. I told him that reminded me too much of the Donnar Party.

Jim, the owner of the bar, moved the tables in the back of the bar and spread out the nachos. Now there were seven of us. We fought honorably and fiercely for 3 hours. The guacomole was in our hair the sour cream in our eyes and nacho chips in our lungs. A clear winner could not be determined. In the end I got the second ticket because I have access to a car and could drive the birhday girl to show.

Drunken Melinda emitted her excitement in loud statements like, "I'm going to have sex with C.C. DeVil!" and "Rachael can have sex with Bret Michaels." Jack jumped in and said, "I don't think Rachael should have sex with Bret Michaels. I don't think he'd be sensetive to her needs. I don't think he'd realize she, as a woman, has needs."

Melinda disagreed stating, "That might have been true pre-'Every Rose Has it's Thorn' but now, he's sensetive. And C.C. is now sober since his Surreal Life stint, it's going to be great."

Jack rebutted, "I think 'Every Rose...' is just a ploy to get more sex. And who knows what diseases he'd pass along to my love that she'd bring home."

I added, "And I don't find them attractive. And I'm not interested in first having to perform sexual favors on an unshowered roadie just for the privilege of having inconsiderate, disease- ladden sex with an over the hill band member. Now, if it were Skid Row, that's a different story."

"Agreed." Jack said.

*This is a completely true detail. I suggested the team name "Melinda Turns 30", but the birthday girl prefered " twat factory," which in retrospect was a much more fun choice even if it was completely inaccurate. None of us manufacture twats and only two of the nine of us had one.