I may have puked in the service elevator, and there are parts (read: 5 out of 6 hours) of the day I can't remember, but no real harm was done. I think. I'm not sure. I was starting to see clearly again when my good friends from this guy's message board, Mr. Jake, and Soylent Green arrived and took me back to my apartment to scrub up and recoup before beginning phase two of the evening.

During dinner, I began to get cocky. The boys drank a gentle Chardonnay with their fried chicken, and since I take Thyro-vital and can drink somewhat normally, I called them a bunch of 'walking crotches' and pulled out the only bottle of liquor in the house, Tequila.

Now Tequila and I go way back. We were very good friends in college and also during the year I lived in San Antonio when I could get at bottle of it in Mexico for two dollars and twenty-five cents. The toothless, shoeless three year-olds-selling chicle in the street would run me fifty bucks, but the Tequila was a bargain. It all weighed out.

Needless to say, Tequila was very happy to see me again, because going down my esophagus was like going home. We had a hello-there shot, and then discussed mixers. The choices were Coke in a crusty 2-liter that had seen better years, mountain dew (shudder), a delicate Chardonnay, apple juice, or RedBull. What did Tequila choose? That's right, folks, the Red Bull, because Tequila knows me better than any other marginally-involved liquor. Tequila would never betray me.

I clinked a few cubes into a Hello Kitty glass, poured out a hefty shot of my main motherfucker and topped with a splash of Red Bull. I mixed it all up and sipped. It was like salty, citrusy heaven on my Bunny taste buds. I decided to call it "THE BUN-QUILA," an equal homage to Tequila's and my geniuses.

I dressed (sort of). I put on an artsy shirt that looked like a dirty wedding veil and Tequila and I decided that wearing a bra beneath it for the purpose of being decent was something only a fucking pussy would do. Coupled with a skirt that served no coverage purpose I was a hot little whore. I asked Tequila what shoes I should wear. It wisely answered with "Doesn't matter. I'd hit it." Oh that witty Tequila.

We decided to go to a party in Lincoln Park, me in my whore-semble, Tucker in a T-shirt stained with hot sauce, Mr. Jake in an oozing sunburn, Tequila in Red Bull, and Soylent Green in a custom-cut kilt and boots. Naturally, the Trixies were out and about, and my whore-semble was expensive, so I blended in well with the natives.

[Note: Soylent Green is an ex Force Recon Marine Sniper. He can wear a kilt if he wants to. He can wear the flayed carcass of a Scottish Highlander if he wants to].

I've written about "The Trixie" before, but I've never written about their male counterpart, which I like to call "Mr. Trixie" instead of "The Chad," because, were it not for the hefty social influence of their affluent childhood they would be dutifully sucking the cocks of the truly self-aware men in Boystown.

These Mr. Trixies are full of all sorts of unintentional hilarity. They drink Grolsch because the bottle looks cool. If your handbag isn't 'collection' they won't date you. They are usually two IQ points above mongoloid and therefore easy to bed. Tucker does well with Trixies. I clean up with Mr. Trixies.

This bar was alive with cocksuckers. There were Mr. Trixies posing seductively in dirty jeans on every structure. Some were leaning against trendy stools fingering the metal snaps of their retro-chic cowboy shirts. Some were draped over the arms of velvet couches. All of them reminded me of the "Wham" gas pump montage from 'Zoolander.' Tucker's friend mentioned to me that her ex-boyfriend was amongst them. She also told me that he lives off his trust fund millions and made her go dutch on every date, and that if he did fuck her she would fall asleep mid-coitus for the boredom. I decided to go chat with him.

Mr. Trixies love it when women wearing expensive whore-sembles aggressively approach them to say stupid things. Tequila and I did just this with TrustFund, engaged him in vacuous conversation, always cleverly redirecting the focus back toward him. I complimented his fashion sense, then Tequila brilliantly added "Are those Deisel Jeans? Love them." TrustFund was eating us up, and almost about to buy us some Grolsch when he glanced over my shoulder at my friend Soylent Green, grimaced like a bitch, then said condescendingly "Who's that asshole in the skirt?"

Tequila paused to let the anger register. You see, Tequila is Mexican, it was tempered on the anvil of hardship; only the most genuine things in life are important to it. Money, power, appearances, mores, and status hold no currency with Tequila. A faggoty trust-fund-suckling douche who contributes nothing but unintentional comedy to this wonderful country Tequila now lives in can buy us Grolsch if he likes, but he CANNOT be condescending toward a man who has risked life and limb to protect Tequila's freedom.

Oh boy, Tequila was mad.

Bunny: "Excuse me? Are you referring to the Scottish guy with goatee?"
TF: "Yeah, what the fuck is he wearing?"
Tequila: "That's called a kilt you fucking faggot."
TF: "What?"
Tequila: "That 'asshole' is an ex Marine Force Recon Sniper you daft piece of shit!"
TF: "Huh?"
Tequila: "I ought to shove that Grolsch up your brown hole you fucking twat!"
TF: [walking away] "What's your problem?"
Tequila: "MY PROBLEM IS YOU CALLING OUT A MAN WHO'S KILLED MORE DUDES THAN YOU'VE SECRETLY FUCKED!"

I was a little stunned to be honest. Tequila had really gone too far with that last comment. TrustFund hadn't been malicious about the kilt, and he certainly deserved a tongue lashing, but Tequila was rather harsh. I was embarrassed by Tequila's outburst, so I herded up the boys and we went to another party. On the way there, I noticed I was very dizzy.

The party was at our good friend Sharts' new apartment. There were lovely straight ladies everywhere, and none of them wanted to make out with me no matter how hard Tequila grabbed their faces and told them to do so. I thought this was a little pushy of Tequila and told it so, but it kept ignoring me. I've heard Tequila even went so far as to lick a girl's stomach, though I don't remember seeing this.

Tequila went to Sharts' kitchen counter and poured itself into yet another 'Bun-quila.' I didn't think it was a good idea to drink it, but Tequila called me a 'pussy' so I had to.

I escaped into a bedroom in the corner of the apartment to take a pee and get away from the dirty looks of the pretty straight ladies Tequila had offended. The bedroom was dark and lovely. There was a guitar on a stand in the corner, and Pete Yorn's "Music for the Morning After" wafting from computer speakers. I didn't know to whom this bedroom belonged. I was peeing in the bathroom connected to it when Tequila burst in and started making a ruckus. Apparently "Morning After" is Tequila's favorite album. It started leaving notes of an inappropriate sexual nature all over this poor boy's room. It was writing something about using the boy's cock as a microphone when I interjected, "Tequila you don't even know this boy, STOP IT RIGHT NOW!"

Out in the kitchen, people were doing shots. A hazy figure handed me something in a cup that smelled like Jagermeister. Without even thinking, I downed it. Tequila was livid and accused me of cheating, but I diffused the situation by pouring another Bun-quila.

I made small talk and tried my best to avoid Tequila. I was beginning to have fun again when someone came out of the bathroom and yelled, "Who took that huge shit and clogged the toilet?" Of course it was Tequila. You can't leave that liquor alone for even five minutes without something bad happening. I was embarrassed to be peripherally involved, so I gathered up the boys again and left. We went to another bar and apparently I passed out in Tucker's arms while crying, WHILE standing up.

I'm not really sure what happened to Tequila after that. But we're estranged now.

[Note: To Sharts' lovely heterosexual friends: Tequila didn't mean to rape your faces. It lacks self-control. To TrustFund: you should have been nicer to that girl so I'm not sorry Tequila offended you. To the (hopefully attractive) roommate: give me a call if you like Bunnies. I promise not to bring Tequila over. To Sharts' plumbing: I sincerely apologize for Tequila's colon. I think it has a Thyroid problem].

Update: Sharts' roommate is indeed, attactive. So much so that his name is now "Dreamy Roommate." I am still trying to get him to play some shirtless guitar for me. He refuses. I will soon have to resort to sedation via various substances. A little Tequila might do the trick.