Everything is wrong with me
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
A letter to my friends in Boston

First I should tell you that I’m really proud of and happy for you all for being in serious relationships. That you all have found women to love you is astonishing and means that if you can do it, so can I. Love is great and I’m so happy that so many of you, my Boston friends, have found it.

Second, I know that I am prone to getting all excited about things for no good reason. I know that I looked forward to my trip to Boston this past weekend with an exorbitant amount of anticipation, imagining all of us getting together and, like old times, getting ourselves into ridiculous predicaments. Like that time junior year when Gian slept on the deck and that cat peed on him, or when Tom had too much to drink and threw the coffee table out the window, or when Bill and I got plastered and somehow wound up in bed together. For three days.

But sadly, based on the events of this past weekend, I feel that you have – how should I say this? – lost your edge. It seemed on my visit over the weekend that you guys were different men, and I think this is due in no small part to the fact that you are in love. With women. And whatever the hell Sarah is.

(Just kidding Sarah!)

I suppose I should get straight to the point: just because you guys have found love does not mean that you should give up on having fun. The sense of resignation among you is heartbreaking. What is even sadder is that you don’t realize it. So I am here to tell you about it and get you out of it. And when I’m done, you will be changed men, and I will take a long, hot bath, during which I will most likely bring myself to climax onto the pages of a men’s magazine.

On Saturday, we drank from the early afternoon until almost midnight. This would not be a problem in New York City, where the bars are open until 4am. But in Boston, last call is at 1:30am. And the bar we eventually went to closed at 1am. So we were out for about an hour and a half.

This is entirely unacceptable. I understand and appreciate the logic behind your argument ("If when we go out we only talk to each other, why don’t we just stay here and get drunk cheaply?"), but that does not mean I condone it.

I know, I know, you scoff at hearing me take this side of the argument, when you know full well that I spend at least ten hours per weekend sitting with my roommate Brian in my living room, drinking Bud and watching VH1 Classic. But again, this is New York City. Such conveniences are allowed here, because this city never sleeps. And you guys know that I need to get good and drunk if I’m going to come home from the bar to troll craigslist for bi-curious sex at 4am.

But I know that nothing exciting is going to happen when we are all drinking in the apartment. Well, nothing within the realm of reason anyway. I suppose something strange could happen, like some sort of lesbian party spontaneously breaking out next door or something like that. But, sadly, the odds are very much against this.

(Also, the lesbians would have really good weed and a lot of pie. But we’re getting off track here.)

I miss you guys when I am in New York City. Down here, it’s just Brian and I, and we have grown tired of each other. Our conversations consist strictly of "I’m going to the store – do you want anything?" and "Does it smell like jizz in here?" and "Did you notice a middle-aged Asian guy sleeping on the couch when you woke up? Was he wearing my watch?" This isn’t necessarily bad, but merely the result of living together for many years.

So when I come to Boston, I look for a release. I look forward to going out with my buddies, getting shit-canned, and getting shot down by new and less attractive women who talk funny. I can’t do this when we spend all our time in an apartment discussing the ramifications of Norm Chow’s system on Tennessee’s offense what the hell is wrong with Randy Johnson.

And since you know me well, you know I’m never one to judge a situation without also offering an entirely unreasonable and impossible solution. And so in order to get yourselves back on the road to be fun-loving individuals again, you must first break up with your girlfriends. I know this is easier said than done, but honestly, you won't need them anyway. Because...

We're starting a cult. That's right - you all, me, Brian and a couple of other guys here in NYC are starting a cult. Modeled after the cult of the Greek god Dionysius, our activities will revolve around getting drunk, starting fires, hallucinating, stealing cars, and generally rousing rabble. We'll get together every other night (save for Sundays during football season) to party like it's 343 BC: homemade wine, pounding music, and, of course, horrible hygiene.

In addition, during the day we will be broken up into divisions so that we can make money to pay for our habits. For example, some of us will work as private detectives. Others, blacksmiths. The third main division will be our largest: systems analysts for mid-level advertising companies. The rest of us will be divided among other jobs according to our strengths (i.e. lifeguards, telephone operators, professional softball players, guys who design calendars, etc). We need to maintain a steady source of income so that when one of us thinks, "You know what would be awesome? If we got messed up and ate wings on a really fast boat!", we can do just that.

A large part of our cult life will be crazy, free and downright dangerous sex - though not with each other. Therefore, we will need women in the cult. On the surface, this might appear to be a problem, as we don't know many women, let alone women who would consent to letting creepy men touch them in all their secret places. But fortunately, the leader of the cult (me) just happens to be one of the most famous people on the internet, if not the entire world.

Knowing from the statistics that thousands of people read my website daily and judging from the pictures that have been sent to me, I am confident that out of the many visitors there have to be around ten attractive-to-doable women reading. And so I will post a message asking them if they'd like to be involved. Now, I won't come out and call it a "cult", per se, but perhaps rather a book club or something (chicks love to read). Then when the show up, through my powers of charm, manipulation, and surreptitiously slipping barbiturates into the drinks of others, they will be initiated in no time.

So this is my idea: drop the girlfriends and join my cult. I think it makes sense. You guys will get the love that you so crave in the form of the nubile young women of the cult, who will always smell of the finest perfumes and sea salts. And I will get to hang out and get drunk with you all, unencumbered by the glares of your girlfriends who have such great disdain for me. It will be just like the good old times of college, except with less term papers and more orgies.

Please take the time to digest this and get back to me. But let me know at your earliest convenience if you are interested, so I can tell the caterer how much baked ziti to make for our first mixer. And if you can bring plastic cups or some macaroni salad, it would be most appreciated.

Your friend,
Whether you like it or not,
This is me,
A rogue and a drunkard,
Easy to spot,
In the tavern of Lovers,

Jason MJPAE Mulgrew

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