Spaghetti Party Please - Table For One
So, as promised, here’s the “embarrassing?” spaghetti party story.
One night, many many moons ago when I was still polite enough to bring something with me to Brad’s when I went over, I brought a 12-pack of La Batt’s Blue beer. Ah, La Batt’s - brings me right back to my college days.
I showed up and Brad was asleep. It was barely sunset, I’m sure - he being the old man that he is. I put the 12-pack in the fridge and marched over to his bed and climbed in. My attempts at being frisky were denied, as usual. But no harm, no foul. He was asleep, after all.
So I went into his kitchen and popped open one of those bad-boys. Fourteen beers later… don’t ask me how I got a baker’s dozen out of the twelve pack… I decided I was hungry and I hadn’t even smoked any of The Pot. The only edible morsel in his cupboard was spaghetti. So I decided to make some. I rationed off half the bag/box or whatever it was. In order to fit the pasta into his miniscule inefficient pot, I had to break the spaghetti into half by snapping it in half. Psssssssssiewwwwwwwwsh. Imagine the sound of the grand finale of fireworks on the Fourth Of July. That was the same sound of my spaghetti snapping.
So I cooked up a yummy pot of pasta and ate it with salt and maybe some butter if I was lucky enough to find any in Brad’s bachelor pad. Then, in my drunken state, I decided I needed still more sustenance. So I cooked up the rest of the spaghetti. Again I had to snap it in half. Psssssssssiewwwwwwwwsh. (Again, the sound of the grand finale of fireworks on the Fourth Of July.)
I shoved all the second round of pasta down my pie-hole. I worked on a few New York Times crossword puzzles and eventually showered (in my unfruitful hopes to get laid) and went to bed.
The next morning, Brad awoke at the crack of dawn as usual. He got up, dressed and went and got a Starbucks and the morning paper. When he got home, he went to the kitchen to sit and enjoy the paper. Only, he couldn’t sit (or stand for that matter) anywhere without coming across a piece of uncooked spaghetti. Apparently, the spaghetti snapping party the night before had gotten out of hand and had spread to every corner of his apartment (which is only about 200 square feet, by the way - so I am not entirely to blame.) I must have done some sort of rain dance with the spaghetti as my offering to the gods or something because there were bits of spaghetti in the strangest nooks and crannies. Brad opened up his dictionary and found spaghetti shards.
So there I am, asleep and oblivious and Brad’s trying to figure out how a spaghetti factory exploded in his shoebox apartment while he was sleeping. He decides to blame it on me but can’t imagine how his girlfriend spread the spaghetti distruction so far and wide. What was even more confusing was why.
So, from then on, Brad likes to ridicule me every time I get even remotely tipsy in the wake of his passing out at sundown (which is every night - his falling asleep - not my drunkenness.) This is what’s known as my “spaghetti party.”
