Oh, fancy meeting you here. I didn’t know they let fun-burglars who cheat on one of my best friends in this bar. Did you not have to pay cover again because you let the doorman smell your hair while you ate a bowl of cookie dough?
Yeah, I know this bouncer here throbs to the beat of a different sexual rhythm–and here you go again, trying to play the victim in a situation you provoked.
Come on; you know that you brought the goddamn cookie dough and you know you were the one propositioning that chubby bunny.
Go on, I know why you started talking to me tonight; you want to know what he’s up to these days. You don’t genuinely care about the character arcs in my latest screenplay, “Loose Lips Sink Ships”, in which an eclectic bunch of idiot prostitutes compete against each other in a harrowing tale about racing the America’s Cup, do you? No, you just want to get me talking so you can casually inquire about your ex-boo, your former tickle-piece, your old, daily hot-beef treat.
Tsk, you really want to know, don’t you?
You really want to know if your decision to cheat on him on the first day of Ramadan was, in hindsight, a good decision, don’t you?
But, yeah, true, super ironic it was Ramadan, right?
Anyways, much to your delight I’m sure: he has been miserable since then. Just a real sack of old, dirty eggs to be around.
Well, I’m sorry if you haven’t heard that idiom before; I’m sorry you’ve had limited experience in your life with eggs and sacks!
Seriously though he’s a mess; he tried to write a few songs and channel the energy after you left. He tried them out at some coffee-house open-mics, but the partisan crowd mercilessly booed him when none of his songs sounded like “Wonderwall”. Subsequently, he lost his confidence and they fired his apprehensive ass from his stockbroker position. He moved back in with his parents and took the only work he could get.
Yup, you guessed it, an unsuccessful leach farmer while moonlighting as the village idiot. The pay isn’t enough to move out, but at least being the village idiot gives him dental coverage again.
You should really call him.
No, it wouldn’t be a bother; it wouldn’t be weird and he’d love to hear from you.
Why, would he love to hear from you? Oh, probably so he can rub it in your makeup-caked face how awesome his life is now!
Yes, that’s right. Call it what you like be it, gotcha, reversies, super-sike, jk, or J.K. Rowling; none of what I said before that last bit is true! He’s no leach farmer, he doesn’t live with his parents, and he doesn’t want to see or hear from you! His life sans-you is incredible. He works as an investor still, but on his own terms now; he just trades stocks, smokes cigarettes, and rakes in the buku bucks remotely from his fan boat.
Yeah, I know, I couldn’t believe it either; he bought a fucking fan boat! You know why he avoided the Facebook IPO?
No, he’s not genius enough to predict the stock dropping like that. No, it was more dumb luck he missed it. That morning he had harpooned a crocodile with a crossbow and was now going on the second hour of reeling it in while simultaneously trying to shoot at it with the rifle more. So yeah, he had bigger things to worry about than Facebook that morning.
Really, the only part of his life since you that wasn’t completely all smiles and McNuggets was his brief stay in the hospital.
No, it wasn’t an injury from that River Monster-esque crocosaurus. That crocodile he snagged was eventually shot beyond recognition
The hospital? Oh, yeah, he’s fine now.
Ah, yes, he went to the hospital last week after he dehydrated during a pansexual coke fiesta in a champagne-filled hot tub. Let me reiterate: he dehydrated; likely from all of the fluids him and Ving Rhames left in the many orifi of the tub as well as the ladies they picked up earlier at an NBA Finals after party co-hosted by Bruce Willis and Ray Charles. That’s my guess on the cause, but hey, I’m no Dr. Seuss.
I thought their party would be weird too, but they’re a fantastic host duo. Just top-notch.
After he went to the hospital though he literally had to stay there for five extra hours to graft skin on his palm after every man in the place gave him a high-five once the legend behind his hospitalization spread.
For a hospital stay it was pretty fun though. He ended up getting down and disorderly with this cute orderly, which, as you know, hospital sex is always pretty cool. Also, they served tacos for lunch the next day, which was also always pretty cool.
Oh, yes, I suppose I’m ahead of myself. He’s also best friends with Ving Rhames now. We met him after your ex and Ving both won the same lottery for $25 million and decided to open a club together in New York City.
Yes, I know that’s always been your dream; that’s why he named it after you. Truthfully, he claims he still carries a burning desire for you; a burning desire of contempt and disdain that burns with the fire of one thousand packets of hot sauce; a fire that will eventually cause him to burn down the club. In part the fire will be an effigy towards the skank-stain that you are, and, partially, the fire will be for the wicked, butt-load of insurance money that accompanies a burned down club.