Murphy's Law

The way it started is I’m at a Cubs game, minding my own business, when this drunk chick next to me spills beer all over my peanuts. I say, “Hey, you spilled your beer all over my peanuts,” except she thinks I’ve said, “Hey, you spilled your beer all over my penis,” and this misunderstanding leads to a good laugh which leads to us becoming BFFs within a span of two innings. We pretty much ignore the game in progress as we talk. By the top of the sixth, I’m comfortable enough to start making fun of her and her unbelievably bright white teeth, and that’s when her mother hen of a sister steps in and is all, “You better watch out, buddy – she’s a celebrity.”

Turns out, this girl is a soap opera actress. She plays a “bitch” and people on the message board of her IMDB page can’t stand her. But famous is famous, even if the only other things she’s done are bit parts in TV sitcoms and a few indie flicks here and there. Word of her presence quickly spreads throughout the left field bleachers and people start taking pictures of her, yelling things. Problem is, no one really knows who she is exactly. They only know that she’s on TV. They’re like, Are you Rachel Bilson? Emmy Rossum? Keira Knightley? And because she’s none of these women she kind of storms out of the ballpark with her sister and her friend during the middle of the eighth. I leave with them.

We end up across the street at this sports bar called Murphy’s Bleachers, chugging beers together, singing “Go Cubs Go.” I’m pretty hammered for a Monday night and just about ready to go home, but then The Actress tells me she’s leaving her soap to join the cast of a popular primetime series next fall and that she will be getting involved in a lesbian storyline, so of course I have to try to get her and her friend to kiss. But shit yo, they won’t do it – even when I’m trying to press their heads together and repeatedly saying, “C’MON, IT’S JUST ACTING!!!” So then I do what I’d never do in a million years in a million parallel universes, I say, “Fine, act with me then,” and I dip her and smooch her on the lips like Adrien Brody did to Halle Berry that one year at the Oscars.

They start ringing the “home run” bell at Murphy’s and everyone’s screaming and stuff. The Actress is a good sport about it, although during our embrace she kind of gives me the “three pats on the back” thing that uninterested girls do when a guy has let a hug linger for too long. I ask for her phone number but she says no, and then she talks to this sweaty bald bartender for about a half hour straight so I go home and brag to all of my friends through text messages before possibly crying myself to sleep.