I learned a lot about myself this weekend. Specifically, that there's a lot of things I would do to avoid intimate contact with DJ Qualls.

Friday night, Jessica, Carrie, Dr. No, and I turned up at Cat & Fiddle on Sunset to buy a drink for Bill, who threw a shindig there both to belatedly fete his birthday and in a desperate, clawing attempt to drink for free all night. We showed up at 8:15 for dinner and didn't leave until they more or less threw us out of the bar by our hair.

It was one of those evenings where, thanks to the alcohol and the good company, we were slap-happy and giggling all night. For more, check out Drunky But Funky.

We barely stopped laughing long enough to eat dinner. In a related note, we are very pleased with our latest project: starting a redneck band. It's called Uncle Grandma, and in it, Carrie plays the jugs, Jessica's on the triangle, Dr. No is on the washboard, I'm on the shoebox guitar, and Lauren is our yodeler. She wasn't there for this, but when Jessica suggested we needed a yodeler, we stared at each other with a gleam of recognition and breathed, "Lauren is totally a perfect yodeler." When we informed her later, Lauren was not totally sure how to react, but eventually settled upon "flattered."

The night also involved a really long game of "Marry, Fuck, Kill," in preparation for the Las Vegas road trip next weekend. Dr. No has proven highly adept at throwing out challenging and nauseating combinations of people, the likes of which would send us into dangerous fits of car-crashing laughter had we actually been en route to Nevada.

CARRIE:
Dr. No just threw out, "Jo, Tootie, or Mrs. Garrett: The All Facts Of Life version."

HEATHER:
Oh, well, for sure you kill Mrs. Garrett. I think you have to.

CARRIE:
Not a chance.

HEATHER:
Why not? I mean, she's lived her life. She can go. I'd marry Jo, fuck Tootie, and kill Mrs. G. What would you do?

CARRIE:
Oh, I married Mrs. Garrett. That woman must know how to cook.

HEATHER:
You married Mrs. Garrett for her skills in the kitchen? That's so� practical.

CARRIE:
Well, I know the way to my own heart.

DR. NO:
Okay, okay, I have a really good one. Okay. Are you ready? The all-musician one: Kenny G., Yanni� and Enya.

HEATHER:
No.

DR. NO:
Not an option.

HEATHER:
Well� dammit! Dammit. Okay. You have to kill Kenny G, first of all. Then I think you marry Enya and fuck Yanni.

DR. NO:
WHAT? YOU WOULD FUCK YANNI?

HEATHER:
I can't fuck Kenny G! That's like� fucking Michael Bolton when he had long hair. No. There's no G fucking.

DR. NO:
BUT YOU WOULD FUCK YANNI?

HEATHER:
WHAT ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?

DR. NO:
Carrie. Jessica. I just want you to know that your friend Heather would fuck Yanni.

HEATHER:
IT'S A CIRCUMSTANTIAL FUCK!

DR. NO:
IT'S YANNI! YOU FUCKED YANNI!

HEATHER:
It's not like I killed George Clooney or anything. Shit.

CARRIE:
He's very upset about the Yanni thing. It seems to be equally appalling to him.

DR. NO:
YANNI! SHE FUCKED YANNI, PEOPLE! SHE WANTS TO FUCK YANNI!

HEATHER:
I'm not sitting around with fantasies of Yanni! I'm just saying that, given the choice between him and Kenny G., I'd go with the one who was married to Linda Evans and therefore probably knew what he was doing in the sack, and who also didn't evoke images of Michael Bolton The No-Talent Ass Clown.

JESSICA:
I have to say, I think I'm with you on this one.

DR. NO:
I'm not sure I can keep thinking about this without exploding.

So Dr. No came up with another one to distract us. There was a reason this particular choice came up: I hugged Dr. No to my modest bosom, and Carrie said, "No, that's not how you do it," and grabbed his head and rubbed it in her far more ample cleavage. Dr. No smiled delightedly, then sighed and said, "I wish that did it for me." After which they agreed that it might have done something for him had Carrie been endowed with a penis. Which she's not. But it led to this:

DR. NO:
Well, okay, then I have a really good question. Marry, fuck, or kill: Tom Green, DJ Qualls, or a man with boobs and a penis.

HEATHER:
Oh, oh no, oh, son of a whore! I'm going to have to fuck something rancid.

JESSICA:
This might be the best one ever.

HEATHER:
I think I'm marrying Boobs-and-Penis.

DR. NO:
Wow!

CARRIE:
Well� yes. Yes, I think you have to, actually.

JESSICA:
You do. You marry Boobs With Penis.

HEATHER:
I'm not sure I can answer the rest of this one, though. I mean, Tom Green puts cow udders and raw meat and quite possibly poo into his mouth. But DJ Qualls is very, very close to being my last man on Earth.

CARRIE:
He's disgusting! But Tom Green! No!

JESSICA:
I think I have to fuck Tom Green. I hate him, but I have to fuck him.

HEATHER:
Yes. Fuck Tom Green, kill DJ Qualls, and marry Penis Boobs.

DR. NO:
Who knew that a man with boobs and a penis would be the marrying kind?

JESSICA:
He is, apparently, a hot commodity. He is marriage material.

HEATHER:
What do you suppose DJ Qualls would say if he knew that we were so desperate to avoid any kind of intimate contact with him that we would screw the hell out of a cow-udder-fellating lunatic and marry a man with breasts?

CARRIE:
Maybe he would rethink himself.

HEATHER
That's a letter I don't think we should write.

Someone got here by searching for: Streisand manse photos Reading: Lonely Planet's guide to Western Europe Watching: The Sweetest Thing, which is the biggest steaming pile of turd I've seen in a long time.

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