Wrapped Up Like A Douche

IDIOMS ATE YOUR WHEATIES (Still Cont'd.)
A tale of Joy and Woe and Joy in Four Chapters.

By Me, with the assistance of the many intrepid seekers whose use of the following search terms (in boldface) has led them to this site over the past year. (Click here to read Chapter 1, in which your hero faces various challenges en route to Jon Cryer's birthday party; or here to read Chapter 2, in which said hero narrowly avoids a public transportation melee by flagging down a passing taxi.)

CHAPTER 3

“My name is Ian and I am awesome,” I said to the driver as I slammed the door.

“Heard dat, douche cat,” the driver responded in an unintentionally poetic way, and sped away towards the Cryer compound, where I feared they’d already begun the internet shooting games and women’s body cavity search and (a favorite of mine) the C.H.U.D.S. wiffleball, or even--perish the thought--gotten out the boinking table.

I was hoping to warm up my conversational skillz before we arrived, since it would take more than my enormous manhood and Montenegro wrestling mighty thighs to impress the Cryer crowd. “Anyone who likes sourdough bread is a douche!” I bubbled, to get the ball rolling.

But the driver remained nonplussed. “I'm Easy, Keith Carradine,” he said, and asked how I came to be invited to the biggest party since the invention of transfat-free coffee creamer.

“Boss caught me wanking... an angry coworker ratted on me...” I began, and proceeded to painfully recount the entire sordid story of my dismissal from my job at Sally Struthers’ the Great Space Coaster, the downward spiral which followed, the snortin poppers pictures, the nights at Lola's Tattoos hot and flying, and how eventually I ended up passed out in the gutter, on the business end of the beam of despair, where none other than the former star of Pretty in Pink (who was fortuitously passing by on his way back from picking up bubble gum wrapper patterns for a science fair backboard) saw me in my shiny catsuit, and asked how I came to such a sorry pass.

"There were naked men... beach...” I mumbled toward his famous crotch, half-dead from gay haircut punishment and other unmentionable trials and tribulations.

But Jon Cryer took pity on me, and invited me to his nearly world-famous birthday party, thus giving me a reason to live for a while, and to take a kulti shower, fix my visible pantylines and put the Goonies food stamp he gave me to good use. So imagine my surprise when, upon arriving at the gates of Cryer Gardens in my taxi, I was told by none other than Darya Folsom in tight sweater that I was not on the guest list.

The thrilling conclusion awaits in Chapter 4.