Untold Tales of the Hot Tub Party

Here’s an excerpt from an entry that’s been sitting as a draft for far too long. It’s only the beginning, and I have every intention of finishing it this weekend.

For those who were there: yes, this is the story of what happened when the cops came.

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I was not the only birthday celebrant at my party featuring the hot tub on a truck last November. Another celebrant was my coworker and guy-at-the-neighbouring-desk-at-Tucows, Guile, who shares a birthday with me. Yet another guest with a November 5th birthday was Ashley Bristowe, whom I met twelve years ago back at Crazy Go Nuts University.

“Ash,” I said to her sometime shortly after one a.m., just as the party was kicking into high gear, “you’ve go to try out the hot tub. It’s like being in a Puff Daddy video! Did you bring a bathing suit?”

“Bathing suit?” she retorted indignantly. “What is this bullshit about bathing suits?”

She’s actually quite demure most of the time, but gets all potty-mouthed when the tequila comes out.

“I will go in the tub…nekkid!”

I raised my right eyebrow, which I do whenever I am presented with an intriguing idea.

“But I will only do it if you do it too.”

“Bristowe,” I said, putting an arm around her, “I’ve been to Burning
Man, baby. I’ve had my wang out in a sandstorm, so this is child’s play. Nekkid we shall be.”