I've just returned home from my very first Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday party. We dubbed it "Nerdy Gras" when we realized just two fellows in the room could wear their masks properly, because the rest of us all were wearing glasses. Things only got nerdier from there, as we delved into Star Wars discussion.
Things must be coming up Milhouse for me. I mean, I kept my job. My birthday celebration turned out to be top-fucking-notch. I found out earlier today I'm getting a bonus (of course, my boss told me by pulling me into his office and closing the door, making me think that I was going to get the news of "Hey, remember when I told you that your job was safe?"), AND I GOT THE BABY FROM THE KING CAKE.
I failed miserably in not making everyone show me their tits before I left early because I'm lame. Obviously, I am a horrible, horrible Queen. There are certain privileges/responsibilities/superstitions that come with getting the baby. Notice, Classy Broads and Company, there is nothing on Wikipedia about the baby-getter ending up knocked up. I am not getting knocked up!
However, I do have to host the party and make the cake next year. Thank fucking Christ I have a year to work on my jambalaya, red beans and dirty rice. Man, Dave threw the fuck down in the kitchen tonight, y'all. I'm sure I can come up with something reasonably tasty, foodwise. However, I'm not going to replicate the delicious, delicious home brew we had.
I've got work to do. Mark your calendar, y'all.