"I told you no," I said, "I came here to have fun not to listen to your whingey voice blah-blah about some vague undefined business crap," I said, "You little Canadian fuckwit-who-can't-take-no-for-an-answer better go crawl back down the fat pipe you crawled out of and while you're down there, get a shave and a haircut you nobby little troll," I said, "In fact I take that back, calling a slob like you a troll is like calling duckshit pate de foie gras."
That's not what I said, it's what I should have said. instead I gave the turd 'evils' and got back into the far better conversation happening to my right, it occured that the superior conversation was terribly literary and I actually learned something from it. Not so with Mr. Fuckwit. I felt ashamed to share a citizenship with him. I've known losers like that my whole life, I thought to myself, and to this day I wonder why they get a rise out of me.
Oh well, the crescendo to the evening was approaching, by prior arrangement our whole sick crew had purchased all the chemistry supplies from the bar to synthesize some Impolex G swing drinks (meaning: you have a drink and the room starts to swing) and the whole sick crew including our adorable little fuckwit got busy with the long molecules and correct proportions. At last, Justyna, a lusty researcher, let out a cry as a whoosh of purple flame jetted our of her 8-ball glass (meaning equal to 8 highballs) and we yelped in unison 'success!'
Then it was down to someone to take the first taste, Justyna's co-conspirator, a biometric computer scientist named Ania shot it down in 2 gulps and smacked the 8-ball glass on the counter just before her hair spontaneously turned blonde and she had to excuse herself from the rest of the experient.