An extra threatening letter from the gas company, an envelope speckled with blood addressed to a senator, a third subscription to Bathtub Gin Aficionado: seriously, anything would be better to receive in the mail than an invite to this dinner party.
Ugh, and it’s from the Mayfields. I know they’re going to badger me into going; I can’t just cease contact, take the credit hit, and use the oven to heat the apartment until spring like I do with the gas company.
Dinner parties, junk coupons, and Ted Kaczynski—this is why people are no longer excited to receive anything in the mail.
The Mayfields are the overbearing pseudo-friends who insist on throwing these things. Yes, the Mayfields are truly the worst. Their friendship is like that rash I have from losing that McNugget in my long johns—too easy to acquire, but nearly impossible to get rid of.
My laissez-faire approach to distancing myself clearly hasn’t been working. The Mayfields interpret my immature mannerisms as a “cry for help” instead of being non-confrontational ways to get them to stop inviting me. Why do they want a guest who shows up an hour late, brings only half a bottle of fortified wine for dinner, and then eats all of their children’s gummy vitamins before falling asleep in their dog’s bed?
You’d think the three far-from-PG stories I perpetually trod out about the same day in that Sizzler bathroom would scare them off, but they just keep inviting me. It’s like they’re trying to break me and mold me into a fanciful and respectable person—it’s like my first semester at the Attractive Man Magic Academy all over again.
Excuses fail me, I’ve used everything in the book from my dog is sick to Grandma needs to go to the pound to be put down. The Mayfields see right through my attempted ploy, insist they won’t take no for an answer, and assert that I be by at five tomorrow.
I show up at quarter-to-seven and I’m surprised that they’re just sitting down for appetizers. Well played, Mayfields, give me an earlier time knowing I’ll show up apathetically late. I give them the now-two-thirds-empty bottle of a very oaky 2012 drifter wine that only tastes like oak because I accidentally got bark in it on the way over. I let their slave-child take my bathrobe turned overcoat and slump into a chair
This weird root for an appetizer is absolutely abhorrent. I don’t care if you brought it back from your trip to Ecuador, Mayfields; every bite still tastes like a gritty family of un-delicious mice died in my mouth. Fantastic, someone had to ask about their trip—now we’re going to be launched into a twenty-minute story with only minimal explosions, predictable plot twists, and only partial nudity.
We sit down for dinner and placed in front of me is some sort of bowl filled with nothing but ruffage and boiled chicken. Blechh, I can already feel my taste buds drafting a collective suicide manifesto.
Call me old-fashioned, but, instead of chicken, how about hot pocket slices in the salad? And you know what could make that dish even better? Just a hot pocket in its crisping sleeve that I’m eating in a bubble bath as I’m alone in my apartment reading Heaven’s Gate fan fiction while I’m not at this shitty dinner party.
I’m just going to use this bowl as an ironic ashtray, because this salad couldn’t be farther from Flavor Country.
Casserole for dinner lets me know that Mrs. Mayfield is capable of combining measurements together and following minimal instructions to create something that tastes like molten garbage. I promptly empty my plate into the dog’s bowl because if I wanted to eat a bunch of food mixed up with a bunch of other food that together smells like low tide I would have just licked that pool of vomit off the bathroom floor at Red Lobster when I had the chance.
I’m just going see what they have in the fridge—oh, good, they have ingredients for nachos. Seriously, how hard would it have been to just make me nachos, or just not pester me into coming at all?
Eating my nachos with the other guests in uncomfortable silence was the highlight of the evening. Things got much worse when Mr. Mayfield brought out a tray of fruit for dessert. Fruit is not an acceptable dessert. We’re talking about dessert in 2013, not a Christmas present during the Great Depression. God, this fresh watermelon is awful; it doesn’t taste like the Starburst flavor at all. Thankfully, I’ll just have another cigarette for my after dinner treat.
Finally, dinner is technically over and I’m ready to leave. On the way out the Mayfields said, “Thank you for making it, Justin.” To which I replied, “Yeah, I’m going to be honest because you’re clearly not getting my passive aggressive message, but let’s never do this again.”
Mrs. Mayfield weeps; Mr. Mayfield escorts me out before consoling her.
That’s why they call me Bad Company, I can’t deny. Bad, Bad Company, till the day I die.