So we're leaving the bar when some guy accosts us. "Where are you going?"

"Dude, who are you?" I ask.

"I'm Tex."

"You registered me for my classes for four years. You know, 'good bye and good luck,'" I respond. Anyone who went to the University of Texas remembers this guy, but Tex? Not so much. He cocks his head in confusion. Meanwhile, his friend is totally trying to get my attention. He's shorter than Tex, and rather annoying. I keep picturing the Kibbles n Bits commercial in which the little dog is jumping over the big dog.

"You're a weather man?" I ask.

"He prefers the term 'Meteorologist,'" Contrary informs me.

Tex and Weatherman insist on coming with us. We tell them to meet us at the party. Next thing I know, Tex is in my back seat. Weatherman decides to take his own car.

"Let's talk about Tex in the third person," Contrary suggests.

I nod. "Excellent. Do you think Tex is scared?"

"I would be scared if I were Tex."

"Should we kill him?"

"Let's just drop him off somewhere. Is Tex scared?"

"I just want to get out of this car," we hear him say in a very small voice.

"Let's park in my garage and leave the engine running, and leave him in the back seat."

We pull up outside the house. Suddenly, Tex is sprinting down the street and getting inside a silver Celica. It speeds away. Contrary and I laugh maniacally.

We arrive at the party and meet about five guys named Jonathan. I cannot keep them straight. There's a guitar in the corner next to the couch and I pick it up and sing a love song to Contrary:

"I love Contrary
She loves me
We're the blonde-brunette fantasy."

My fun and games—and perhaps my chance to be on American Idol—are ended as the owner of the guitar—who may or may not be named Jonathan—comes over and takes it from me.

"Whoa, that's like eight hundred dollars," he's muttering.

Dude, it's not like I was smashing it all over the stage. I was PLAYING it. I'm not four. Shut up, Jonathan.

We congregate on the back porch, where we are served lovely warm Coors Light in plastic Double Dave's cups. And we are treated to the sight of trash all over said porch.

"The Fab Five could so do a number on this place. Girls don't come over here very often, do they?" I say.

Uggghhhh it's WEATHERMAN again. Why are you talking to me? I want to ask. He's babbling about how I revved my engine outside and dissing my four cylinder. First of all, Dorkus Maximus, the engine revving was a joke. Second of all, I think my four cylinder Prelude will kick your Mitsubishi Mirage's ass all over the place. Shut up.

"Dude, I'm so done drinking in the landfill," Contrary says. Yup. We're outtie.

-Shakira 01.04.04