So, the funniest story. There I was just getting some sushi and a churro and a Bud Light at the Los Angeles Galaxy game a couple of weekends ago. And then I felt this hand in the small of my back. Big hand. Strong hand. Lots of pressure. I think it’s some soccer hooligan trying to smash his way through the crowd. I’m about to smack that hand off my back when I turn around and see that it’s attached to a 350-pound mound of a man.
And behind him is Posh Spice, a.k.a. Victoria Beckham.
So, I say, “You better get this gorilla off of me!”
And she’s like, “J. Brooks [‘cause that’s what she calls me]! Oh my God, what’s up!?!”
And I’m like, “V. Becks [‘cause that’s what I call her], I’m just trying to get a churro and a Bud Light.”
And she’s like, “Can I have a bite of your churro?”
And I’m like, “Don’t you get all the churros you want in your box?”
I probably should have said “suite” instead of “box,” because I don’t think she understood what I meant. Brits and Americans: two peoples separated by a common language and all that shit.
And that’s when we had our first fight.
So, she’s like, “Piss off, you wanker!”
And I’m like, “Go ahead, be that way.”
And she’s like, “Well forget the invitation to Tom Cruise’s party downtown.”
And I’m like, “I wasn’t coming anyway. I’m just grabbing some Pabst Blue Ribbons at a dive bar tonight. I wouldn’t be caught dead with all of your new poseur friends.”
But I didn’t really mean it. I was just trying to hurt her.
So, she stormed off and, the next day, removed herself as a friend on my Myspace page. I can’t even get in touch with her to return the Pet Shop Boys CDs I borrowed.
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