This is a true story. I did not make this up. This actually happened. I have only changed the names to protect the innocent, and to mock the guilty to the greatest extent possible.
There was once a TV presenter who we shall call Joan.
There was also an idle, smug, conceited and vain wife of a rich man who we shall call Zola.
There was a nightclub in the city named Silk to which people still went to listen to music, drink, pick each other up, and if they were socialites, to make asses of themselves.
One night Joan was at Silk. She was clad in jeans.
In addition to other attire, of course. But it is with the jeans that we concern ourselves tonight.
Zola, meanwhile, was also at Silk. Zola was also, coincidentally, wearing jeans.
Jeans which, it turned out, looked very similar to the ones Joan was wearing.
This is a big deal when you are a socialite. When you become one you will see.
Zola was perplexed at this and she racked her brains trying to figure out a course of action. The options were:
- Get over yourself, you silly woman.
- Leave the club and change.
- Get that girl out of there.
Zola decided on option three, because that is what socialites do. She dispatched her wololos, aka her weed-carriers, aka her hangers-on, aka her troupe of leeches who masquerade as her friends to find Joan and make a proposal to her.
The spineless slimebags who coagulate around rich people slavishly sucking up to their asses were more than happy to do Zola’s bidding and they began to follow Joan around the club. They finally saw their chance when she went to the bathroom. That is when they cornered her and began the following discourse.
Leeches: Um… Hi. How are you
Leeches: There is something we want to like ask you.
Leeches: Well, you know Zola, right?
Joan: Zola who?
Leeches: Zola, the socialite.
Joan: I may have heard of her.
Leeches: Well, she is like a socialite. She is very rich and famous.
Leeches: Well, the problem is she is like also in the club and like, she’s seen like you are wearing jeans which like are kind of like hers and like, she is offering to give you like transi and you go back home and like change into another pair.
I swear this happened. I am not making this up. Stand up and look at your computer. Does it look like it is lying? This really happened.At this point Joan, who as I have mentioned has a weekly TV show which is not as dumb as The Zari Show (Just mentioning that show as a random example, for comparison) said,
Joan: Well, maybe you should tell her that I’m a celebrity so maybe she should be the one to leave and change if she doesn’t want to be in the same place as me with my jeans. You said she is rich, so maybe she can afford to go to Guvnor. Excuse me.
This exchange took a while, and Zar—I mean Zola was getting impatient. She decided that if you want something done you have to do it yourself. She got up off her own ass and walked to the bathroom herself. Either because socialites take shits, too, or to see what the progress was on the jeans question.
She found Joan walking out.
Zola: Excuse me
Zola: I’m Zola.
Joan: Zola who?
I swear this story made me so happy.
Now, in case you are a Zari fan and are for some reason reading this, and you want to comment saying that the language I have used to describe Zola and her hangers on indicates contempt and derision, let me save you the keystrokes. Yes, it does.
But the lesson of the story is that if you want transi home from a club, just go to one where socialites are, and make sure you wear jeans like theirs. Thank you.