The Ghosts of Christmas Past take me on a trip all the way back to Christmas Eve 2002:

On Christmas Eve, everything shut down early with the exception of our favorite / least favorite local dive bar (recently voted CitySearch’s “Easiest Place to Score a Gram”) — here that I, Paul (www.consumptionjunction.com), sit with a friend who runs a Russian mail-order bride service gathered on Christmas Eve.

We sat at the table drowning our livers with all of the holiday fineries: Bud Light and Jagermeister when we were unwillingly joined by two psychotic women that wandered in. Now, when I say psychotic, I don’t mean the normal garden-variety way all chicks are psychotic – I’m talking two angst-filled, bipolar, Lithium-sucking nutjobs. One of these loonies claimed she had “dated” me in the past. To say we dated glamorizes one quick game of “hide the salami” while tripping my face off on acid and then spending the next few months dodging repeated phones calls. She opens up by telling me her boyfriend was about to be released from prison and was going to kill me.

Ok, it’s Christmas – I’ve got to be nice, so I make a few jokes and offer her a drink in an attempt at levity. After a while, the girl loosens up and regales us with stories of intensive probation, a vicious needle habit, and how her lawyer had somehow rigged (no pun intended) things up to where each county she is on probation in thinks she is in a rehab clinic somewhere else, thus — left free to walk the streets and annoy us.

Thanks God for lawyers… NOT!

Eventually, the conversation turns to DVDA (double vaginal / double anal). She claims to have seen double vaginal / triple anal – in person! Paul calls her bluff. A double vaginal / triple anal would be completely impossible, if for no other reason than the sheer logistics of it. She insists the girl in question had an asshole the circumference of a telephone pole which made this possible, but that line of reasoning still doesn’t explain how the mish-mash of arms, legs, and pelvises would be arranged to accommodate such a gaping rectum. Many minutes are spent discussing the necessary sizes of the men’s genitalia, the inclusion of midgets, positions, and the absolute gayness of such an event. It’s all good fun, ‘til the balls touch. We concluded that it was completely impossible to perform a double vaginal / triple anal, but she refused to back down on her claims. We countered with, “If you saw it, then how was it done — illustrate it.”

She agrees, and with the help of a few bar patrons, we attempt a fully clothed re-creation of the act, and, unsurprisingly, find it impossible. Of course, I snapped a picture of the proceedings, and at this the 3ADVA girl became completely unglued, and threatened us, saying if we used the picture we would be sued until we begged for death, then resurrected, and sued again. Paul argued that we were in a public place, and she has no grounds to sue us, but that this is America and anyone can try to sue for anything — and so, the showdown began:

The girl picks up her phone, points to her attorney’s number, and says she’ll have us destitute and incarcerated if we continued. I respond by pointing out we have a few attorneys numbers on our phones as well – yes, another classic “who has the most attorneys on their phone?” pissing contest.

It turns out: I have six lawyers’ numbers; Mrs. Thorazine has four; and Paul, the clear victor, has a total of nine.

Backpedaling, she points out that it isn’t the number of lawyers on one’s phone, it’s whose lawyer will take your call at this hour (4 AM)? Cell phones are drawn, we each dial a lawyer, and switch phones — whoever gets their council to pick up is the victor. Ring one, ring two, ring three, and before the fourth ring the girl chickens out and takes her phone back — the showdown ends without litigation. (A confession: I bluffed and called my voicemail.) This year, I’ve already racked up enough billable hours to make Kobe Bryant blush – I can’t afford even a pro-rated 15 minutes of $300/hour for such silliness. After the duel is over, the girl finally meanders off, I go home, drop a few Xanax, and fall asleep watching Monty Python.

Wise move, because the next day was Christmas Day, and we had big plans…

(Part 2 to follow…)