monster sarcasm rally

What'd you do for New Year's Eve?

On New Year's Eve I took Ford to Rachel's party. Sadly, though, I'm not very good at parties. I'm more of a small group kind of person. Give me two, four, even six people sitting around in a pub and I'm all good. (Well, as long as there are no candles and paper coasters involved, but that's another story...)

A party, though, is different. At a party, one is expected to mix and mingle. Which means small talk. It also means casual, friendly conversation with people one doesn't know. I don't know if you've noticed this, but I can (on occasion) be a wee bit on the sarcastic side. People who like me, like me. People who don't like me steer clear of me for the most part. People who haven't had the pleasure of my company before have a tendency to stare blankly at me. Sometimes this is followed by spontaneous outbursts of crying. Sometimes it involves me having to explain my sentences 40 times, until they have lost any humour they may once have contained. Sometimes it involves people explaining my jokes back to me or taking offence at something that was meant in jest.

I don't like parties. Parties don't like me. If I find myself at one, I generally choose one person and sit in a corner having one conversation all night. On New Year's Eve the person I chose to sit with was Amos. I like Amos. He's cool. Amos likes me. Well, he does as long as nobody around has cheese, because then he likes them much better. The problem, though, is that Amos is exceptionally hairy. I can't begin to express how hairy he is. And the hair's not all actually attached to him. There are great clumps that have come loose, but haven't had the decency to fall off. This is probably because shedding is a punishable offence in Rachel's parents' house. It is, I'm sure of it. Nobody's house is naturally that clean. There must be some sort of dark arts involved.

Where was I going with this? Oh yes... Amos. Hair. More hair. See, as well as being sarcastic, I can also be a wee bit neurotic. I see these clumps of hair on Amos. I see that they have been rejected by his body, but that they are too afraid to fall off. And I pluck them. I pluck them all.

I restrained myself from saving any of them, but they would have made a very nice toque, a Stinky Monkey sweater, and probably 48 afghans.

Jung says that neurosis has something to do with misplaced libido and sexual repression. I say, 'Piss off, Jung, you big know-it-all!'

So, New Year's Eve... I plucked a dog. What'd you do?