Your beloved scapegoat

Strange how the same repeating incidents always make my blood boil.

My mom, for instance, has the ability to, with only a few words, turn my day, one otherwise filled with flowers and sunshine-love, into one where an episode of murderous killing spree bloody axe flinging-type might occur. I try to avoid her as much as possible and thus conveniently solve this problem by not facing it at all. Sure, as a result I have this evergrowing ball of wrath inside me, but hey, at least repressed anger is a healthy .. well not healthy, but a praiseworthy reason for an everyday mental disorder.

Now, does anyone remember the small gray box with the letters SNES imprinted on it? Indeed, I had once again stumbled upon this grand vizier of any and all entertainment systems. Such was the entertainment value of this brilliant device, that my brief visit to Casa Ladybird turned into an excellent adventure, dethroning my primary rendezvous at a certain karaoke bar. Which is to say: I had a blast.

There's certain signals some people give that I regard as my exit cue. With the Ladybird's smile slowly turning into an ominous frown and the captain refusing to share a cab ride home for reasons whiskified, I, being my usual quick-witted bastard like self, made a rapid getaway. I even managed to do it without any hostility or uninvited guests at my place. Or so I thought.

Later, you see, a text message was received. From Ms. Ladybird. Whom our beloved captain presumably pissed off with his whiskey driven antics. Now, I'm not one to condone regrettable arduous deeds committed under the influence, and sure enough, I'll probably give the captain a whacking of my own if any of this is actually true. But redeem me, oh judges of morality and justice, because it supposedly was MY fault for leaving the captain.

Would someone clarify, for I am a mere simpleton, that is it truly my responsibility to clear someone else's house of guests which suddenly become unwanted and take them into my gentle care? I must truly be an archvillain, with my grand scheme to actually materialize into the persona of king alcohol, make someone talk in huge blobs of profanity and then NOT, as etiquette persists, deport a guest from someone else's home.

It does seem my vast, but finite, supply of patience and humour for these average frustrated chumps is running dangerously low. It seems all too common these days in my circle of acquaintances, for drunken but horny guys to make desperate hits on the nearest thing with breasts. Now I'd be perfectly fine with this, were it some stranger at a bar. The difference is, it's wholly hard to approach an unknown woman. And much easier to focus on the woman in the group. Who might consider the guys friendzone-safe material. The consequence has mostly been these guys resorting to derogatory remarks because their drunken, yet oh so manly needs, weren't met by the now puzzled and insulted woman.

Kinda fucked though, since ultimately it comes down to me choosing a different social circle.

Oh this'll be a riot in my yet-to-be-written standup routine.