Terms Of Embarrassment: Un Hommage Aux Henners Sans Graphiques

There has been, of late, a perceptible dearth of Henners related activity on this site. After careful analysis of Henners previous works, I present Terms Of Embarrassment: Un Hommage Aux Henners Sans Graphiques. The following work is not so much in the style of Henners, as it is a tribute to the style of Henners.

This is a doubleheader.

Last Friday evening began inauspiciously at a gay bar downtown, gayly celebrating the very heterosexual birth of my token gay friend Eduardo. In the interest of maintaining the privacy of all involved, I will call him Eduardo, even though his real name is Edwin.

This type of establishment (we're talking the homosexual type) has its advantages and disadvantages. For example, if you're gay, its one of the few places that boasts an all fruit martini drink menu. It's also a great place to meet people who share your affinity for the love that dare not speak its name. In case you fell off the savvy waggon at the starting gate, we're talking gayness here.

If you're one of the 95% of people who is not gay there are still some benefits to be found. When I walked in, for instance a nice man held the door for me, and smiled a reassuring smile. "How refreshing," I thought. Everyone was well dressed. There was a sense of real camaraderie; that we were all in this thing together, and that things would be OK. I was a little uncomfortable, less because of the homosexuality than the fact that I am innately suspicious of happy people. What are they hiding? No one knows.

After a drink or two I politely parted ways with Eduardo to meet up with Madman and Henners.

Post-game analysis: Not That Embarrassed, but slightly disappointed that no one hit on me.

I was to meet up with Madman and Henners at a bar cleverly called "The Best Bar In Boston." I stopped at a bar nearby to ask the bouncer for directions, and realized my mistake near the latter half of the first sentence.

Matters: Excuse me, do you know where the best bar in Boston...
Internal Monologue: Oh crap. Is there a graceful way out of this?
Time elapses. The bouncer leers in anticipation.
Internal Monologue: No. Damnit.
Matters: is?
Enormo The Bouncer: HA HA HA. HOUS ABUT YA FAND IT
RAHERE FAVE DOLA CUVA.
Enormo brings his car sized fist over his shoulder in a backwards
motion to indicate Footy McDougal's Taverloon and Bar Joint behind him.
Matters backs away slowly.

I find Madman, Henners and Brice on the third level of the Best Bar in Boston (with capital letters). They have already gained access to some kind of quasi-exclusive gathering. Madman introduces me to Niki for the second time. I recall the first time we met some months ago, when I drunkenly informed her that "Hey your name rhymes with that mouse... what's his name. You know. Donald." I consider the chances that she remembers this. Not likely. Henners leaves to get the girlfriend. The main attraction for the evening begins.

Madman, Brice, Niki and I will take turns picking out a "target" from among the dancing throngs. The person who is "it" must hold a conversation for 20 seconds or more, and cannot reveal the game to the target. Madman will go first. Niki sent him to a certain death: a girl engrossed in conversation with her three girl friends, standing in the middle of the bar. They are wearing black clothes and unfriendly expressions. Madman had a 15 minute conversation, got three phone numbers, a hug, and a marriage proposal. This is not unexpected. Later in the night, one of the four would ignite herself in the women's bathroom, rather than live another moment in the absence of Madman's radiant glow.

Sensing my reluctance to play the game, Niki spent the 15 minute wait haranguing me with various accusations, ranging from "shy" and "not confident" to "loserific" and "you will never meet a woman, you will be alone for your entire life, you pathetic miserable emotional retard." I protested with as many lies as I could fabricate. "Once, when I was 7 a stranger killed and ate my dog while I watched." "On my 11th birthday a woman in a bar shot me in the leg for asking the time." "30% of women carry pepper spray in Boston. One of us will visit the hospital tonight, and it won't be you or Adam." She was strangely unsympathetic. Luckily, it was Brice's turn.

Brice's turn ended unremarkably, and his unwavering cowardice will undoubtedly prove a sore spot for him for weeks to come.

Madman picked an "easy" one out for me. I ordered two more confidence from the bar, and turned around to go get pepper sprayed in the face. The target was making out with her boyfriend. Though Madman intimated that perhaps she would still be open to conversation after she removed her tongue from that guy's mouth, I excused myself to go marvel at the post modern water fixtures in the bathroom.

Henners returned like a conquering army and there was much celebration. Somewhere in there the night ended.

Post-game analysis: Slightly Embarrassed. Too much confidence, felt bloated.