“I’m pretending it’s Friday night, except without beer,” I told my companion last night.

“Why can’t there be beer?” said my companion. Crap.

We met my companion’s friend at Cyberdogs in the Convention Center, which serves only veggie wieners. This is okay with me; I like a Not Dog as much as the next fucker, but the problem was the fellow behind the counter didn’t know what a Chicago dog was. What up, Not-Dog Slinger? He offered to make one for me, but they didn’t have any “sport peppers.” I think that guy was full of lies.

I ordered a nakey one instead, so I could dress it myself. When I got it, I realized it looked like a dick, for realla. I know, I know, there’s the whole hot-dogs-are-phallic thing, but this thing was all nubbly and queer-looking. All it was missing was realistic soy veining. I would like to know what brand of soy dog this was, so I can never buy one again. For the record: I like dicks fine when they are attached to their owners, but not dick-like food.

Afterwards the three of us headed down to this terrifying hotel bar downtown called Bernard�s. It was close and smoky, making me want a cigarette, but I realized I’d probably do pretty well if I just licked the filmy wall or one of the many grimy businessmen who were huddled down in the basement with us. The doors were heavy wood, and there was this ridiculous medieval-themed mural on the back wall, barely visible through the layers of nicotine. It was a beer-and-whisky bar, but I decided to take my chances and order a lemondrop, just to see what came back. Our friend ordered a whisky sour. The waitress couldn’t find the sugar or the sweet-and-sour to make either and was timid and apologetic, offering us one free beer for our trouble.

Later there were more drinks in better environs. There were good lemondrops and a sidecar, which is my current favorite. My companion went to the bathroom at the swanky place and his friend leaned in close to me.

“Your companion is getting pretty drunk,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. The first time we got drunk together, he had just one beer and tried to feed me a cheese sandwich he found in his bag.

“You better get him home soon. He gets pretty Cro-Magnon after too many. He’s all, ‘I need…and I want…ugh, ugh.”

“I know,” I said.

After my companion’s friend broke off and went home, I used my phone to fish El Mendez out of her pajamas and apartment to Charlie’s for waitresses with complicated, asymmetrical haircuts and cheeseburgers, which did not look like dicks at all.

And this morning I woke up as a redhead. And I am wearing yesterday’s pants and my underpants seem to have gone AWOL. Shiot, biotches.

I didn’t even realize it was Marti Gras until I saw some idiots with beads, a couple of hours after we left the house. A good time was had by all.

In Other, Fan-Fucking-Tastic News

My pick to take over my student office won the election today and is now the new Vice-President. She had the Giant Scrabble Bag enough to name me as her endorser in her candidate’s statement, which I did. I gently advised against that, since I am known, but not necessarily loved around school. I give her snaps and props for doing it anyway, because it seems to have garnered her many votes from students in my cohort.

And now I give myself snaps and props for being the best Karl Rove of my generation. But she will take over and do fine on her own…no puppet dictator here.