I love Carson City. Seriously, it’s a shit-hole of a town, but you just never know what absolutely ridiculous thing might happen. Take last night for example.

I have this friend who shall remain nameless. Or, we’ll just call her Maxine cause she’d like that. In fact, I’m changing all the names of the innocent. Wait, I don’t have any innocent friends. I’ll change their names so they don’t kill me. Anyway, last night, around 5:00, I was sitting right here at my computer, writing BDSM pirate sex, when I start getting texts from Maxine:

M: Hey girl, I’m at Red’s, wanna come down? We’ll pick you up.
L: Thanks, you’re sweet. But I just want to hibernate (It was snowing buckets)
M: Come to Reds. No. Come Down. I’m gonna come get u.
L: Nah, also I’m broke.
M: R u ready?
L: Hell no.
M. Shut up ride will be there in 3 min.
L. Noooo!
M: On my way to get u
L: You bitch! I’m not dressed!
M: Y
L: Or wearing makeup!
M: Get dressed
L: Ug, really?
M: Now
L: Bossy!
M: Look outside

So at this point I proceed to throw on some makeup, trudge out into the snow, go down to Reds where I consume copious amounts of random concoctions of alcohol, and eat a plateful of fried zucchini. So now I was feeling okay, which lead to going to one of Carson’s many dive bars. We go there. We drink more. Maxine’s friend plays a bunch of bad country music. I make the horrible mistake (because I have found alcohol makes a person a little amorous) of saying something along the lines of, “I would really like to get laid.” I didn’t mean like that second, I was just saying, in general, it would be nice to get laid. Because it is nice. Well, that statement was a Big Mistake.

Maxine’s friend says: You should meet my friend Ben. He’s a vet. I’m like, “A vet? Like you want me to meet a Vietnam vet?” “No,” he says. “A VET. Like the kind that can you shoot you in the ass with killer drugs.”

Alrighty then. I’ll meet a vet. Unlike most of the men I meet in Carson, a vet could buy me dinner and probably won’t ride over to my house on a skateboard.

Maxine: “Like, oh my God. He’s super hot! I would so do him. In fact, if you do do him, you better tell me all about it!”

Me: “Definitely! When I fuck the vet, I’ll tell you all about it!!” Cheers.

Maxine’s friend: “Wait, he’s not really a vet. He’s a vet tech.”

Fine, I don’t care. At least he has a job. And then I’m like, wait. What does he look like? Turns out, I actually know who this tech is. I took my dog, Bruno, to his clinic last summer. And I remember him. I remember thinking he was cute. So now, it’s on. I want to go out with the vet tech. So Maxine’s friend starts texting Ben the vet tech. Telling him about me. I ask if he remembers the chick with the tattoos and the mastiff. He doesn’t. (And here I thought we’d had a special connection.) Anyway, Ben asks his friend if I’m hot, to which the friend replies: She’s fuckable.

She’s fuckable.

I, of course, am like what the fuck? A sheep is fuckable. I’m not a sheep! (But he is a vet tech—maybe he likes yard animals). Maxine’s friend, who is a man, insists this is guy talk for a good thing, but I don’t give a shit. Five minutes later I’m in the bathroom drunkenly whining to my friend (the one who’s gonna tattoo Spike on my hand) about being called fuckable.

It gets better.

I go back to the bar. We’re sitting at a table against the wall. The same three guys that have been sitting at the bar all night are still there. I notice one of them gets a phone call. He then hands the phone to our friend. I was like, that’s strange. Our friend and the guy at the bar hadn’t talked all night and now he’s getting calls on the bar guy’s phone? So when my friend hands back the phone, I ask: “What was all that about?” He says, “Oh, that was Ben on the phone. That guy at the bar is his cousin.”

I then glance back to the guy at the bar who VERY CASUALLY turns around and does a slow visual sweep of the general direction in which I happen to be sitting. At this point I really can’t help myself. I simply raise my arms and say, “Hi! What are you looking at back here? This wall really fucking interesting??”

The guy looks a little scared. Can you blame him? His gaze darts over the wall behind me—obviously he’s trying to find a reasonable thing to be looking at other than me and I don’t think the framed picture of John Wayne was gonna cut it. He finally says, “The super bowl chart.”

I’m like, “It’s not even super bowl season!” I later find out I’m wrong about that but anyway. Really? Only in CC would you have some stranger call a cousin in a bar in order to get a report on the fuckable rating on a girl. I felt like he was calling in a bid on a prize cow. Or a sheep. Whatever. I’m still the livestock in this scenario.

So now I’m gonna recap some of the better phrases I’ve heard from men this week: My dick is mad at me (because it no longer sees me.) Mary hates you (from a friend with a delusional girlfriend) and you’re fuckable.

I love this town.