The tapas has barely been served and the normally uninvited guests were already criticizing the yet to be served main course. Of course, among these “new” guests, the defeatists are complaining that there is probably no desert nor aperitif planned, snidely referring to that barbecue party where only beer had been served. Or so they had heard.
For this party, with the “good flatware”, the host better have a plan to stuff their fat sated asses in their own cars, turn the ignition on and tuck them into their own beds.
The frequent guests, invited for their normally intelligent conversation and wit, have decided to impress the new comers by joining in with comments questioning the kitchen staff planning and whether this whole soiree was planned correctly.
Personally, I would tell the bastards off and leave them to stare at empty plates and a defeated evening. Me, I would round up those who remember what such evenings are all about and set out to make it a success.
Alas, it isn’t my soiree, so I just sit and watch the bounders and cads destroy what is good. Maybe I’ll go help in the kitchen. They seem more to my liking. Toiling in the heat and noise, they are skillfully completing their tasks without comment concerning their opinionated de jour “betters” in the front hall.
Maybe I will really ruin this fine soiree and be remembered as the one that tossed a turd in the punchbowl because I reminded them that they could stop their smug bitching, start remembering the purpose of the evening and even lend a hand toward its success.
I hate Saturday night catfights and Monday morning whiners. Everybody is a critic. Even those who can only burn toast.
They sound so. liberal.
