By the way, the title of this post should be I love buns. But whatever, lame.
Being one of the only girl conglomerates in my office, and because all I've heard over the past few days are the words 'Chelsea', 'Man United' and '[Your team] is gonna take it up the batty,' I was coerced last night to go and watch the game with all of them.
I was willing to compromise. I'd move some boxes and watch Men In Trees first, to top up my own reserves of super-oestrogen, then pull through for the second half.
Also, my male colleagues told me that I'd have nothing to talk to the British okes about when I get there.
Oh ye of little faith. How wrong you are. There's plenty I'd chat about, doncha worry about that.
My colleagues also said if I don't watch the soccer with them, I'm 'a girl.' For God's sake, I have a mouth like an oke. Give me some fucking credit.
Just because I have better things to do like count my petticoats, straighten my hair, and play with lipstick colours, you can't call me a girl. Oh and one reckons, later on at the pub, 'Peas, you have a large mouth in the office, but you drink like a girl.'
I might take my shots in sips these days because Granny isn't used to them anymore, but shit, we Jaegerbombed last night. I'm such a sucker. (But not a girl. A girl in the true sense of the word, but not a GIRL. A hot blooded woman who can give a dude a run for his money. Ha!)
Give me a pub, a beer, footie on in the background, a British dude who isn't a yob, and I'll talk to him about a LOT of stuff other than David Beckham's proteges, boys.
Anyway it was fun. We ended up having a heeeyuge bender. Phuza Wednesday is going to kill me. Oh Jesus Christ, we have no voices left. Chelsea lost and this is not good. One of the boys ate the bar tab and washed it down with his beer, and they played Sing Hallelujah. See? In these Chino Pant places, they play fucken Monster Hits.
And sheeh do I live to regret it this morning. It's gonna be a very quiet office today.
