"Where is my little satchel of Fabulous?" cried our tubbiest guest as he reached frantically into my slacks. He was looking for drugs but my pants were too wet to rummage through. You see, this same tattooed, upside-down-weeble-wobble excuse for a man had been tossing errant beers on me from numerous directions. After a baker's dozen of these unfortunate events I had had enough. This idiot we call "Chin," for no other reason than he has none, was well overdue for some serious ramped-up revenge. I remembered I still had some of the finest industrial pink enamel used in my signage creations. With stir stick in hand, I whipped the ingredients to a frothy frenzy, snuck behind the fuck, and let him have it right through his so-last-year country-fuck baseball hat. As the goo oozed into his hair, I sarcastically exclaimed, "Ooooops, I didn't know it was a mesh cap."
Then the reality quickly started to seep into Chin's puny little mind: "I'm a wine salesman––I can't go to customer meetings like this." "Yes you are," I said, as I happily danced on the industrial drippings spewn on the driveway. "Are you regretful of your actions?" one guest shouted from the porch. "Fuck no!" I exclaimed as I proceeded into my Michael Jackson slide-stepping routine along the fence line.
A group of worrywarts took pity on the poor soul and rushed him to my Victorian splendor bathroom. "Stop," I said, "don't take him in there. Do it on the lawn." Heeding my advice, these debutant wannabe hairteasers proceeded with every Ann Landers remedy in the book. Unfortunately, the fast-acting polymers quickly went to work on every strand of that meated mop head. The more they washed, the deeper it got. "Just cut it all off. That's the only way to get rid of it." I flapped his cap in glee. This shit was so fast-acting I suspected it had several drying agents in it.
Finally, Chin gave me a pitiful deer-in-the-headlights stare and said, "What have you done to me?" I gave him a goodbye and told him he should do the same to his job.