Saturday, December 19, 2009
Anthropology: The Mating Rituals of WASPs
One of my favorite jokes is as follows:
Q:What does a WASP say after sex?
A: I'm sorry, it will never happen again.
Oh, now don't go and get all offended from my inflammatory ethnic profiling, I am a WASP, or at least a half breed (though the other half hails from Appalachia and grew up eating squirrel pie, but no matter!). So I am a self- ordained authority on WASPs and consequently have license to make sweeping stereotypes for comedic purposes while revealing the hypocrisy and tawdry underbelly of a culture. Just think of me as the caucasian Chris Rock.
So I spent this past Thursday evening safely ensuring that I will never have sex again at a Young Republican bacchanalia, hosted at Orsay on the Upper East Side. I used to live just a few blocks away, and never went inside the restaurant but did find some delectable vittles in the dumpster just behind after being shooed away for pressing my nose against the glass. Anyway, this was a gorgeous soiree, all the boys busted out their best pocket squares and all the girls their most potent sedatives. Everyone was in high holiday spirits. Even Lauren Bush was in attendance, who I threatened to "jump" outside, but quietly and under my breath, to my plus- one (Brooke D). Despite all the poetic and physical justice I planned on delivering to a member of the Bush family, this sadly did not transpire, as the party was open bar and the only thing that got jumped that night was Brooke D when I pushed her into a pile of garbage. The open bar drove Brooke D in a more amorous direction rather than violent, as she spent the majority of the night staring at her own reflection on the mirrored walls, enraptured by and victim of her own beer goggles.
WASPs display curious social mores and proclivities. For example, if you ask a WASP where they went to school, they will invariably respond with the name of their high school. What the?! A small group of swans exchanged looks of utter bewilderment when they asked me this question and my response was "Doherty Memorial." "Oh, I've never heard of it, where is that again?,"one bauble- headed lovely asked me. "Yeah, it's really exclusive, it's in Worcester." "Oh, England?" "Uh, yes."
When you ask people how they know each other, they will often respond with "the Vineyard." When a man in a tie emblazoned with the Edgartown Yacht Club symbol asked Brooke and I how we knew each other, I quickly interjected with "Necker Island," which impressed this group momentarily, until they looked down at my polyurethane Forever 21 shoes and knew I was lying. Brooke's unbridled elation at the fact that "the drinks are freeeeeeeee!" didn't help our case either.
It's also completely appropriate for heterosexual [questionable] males to wear pink pants. What else do these haberdashers like? They like cuff links, truffles, gin, dancing in circles with other men to Neil Diamond cover bands, and not me. This one guy with movie star good looks and a Harvard MBA handed me his empty glass after he was finished with his umpteenth Maker's. As if I were the help. WASPs, curiously, are offended by the generous proportions of my rear end, which they find vulgar, but is always a hit in Harlem. These boys hadn't seen anything this wide since the finish line at the Head of the Charles!
I studied the fair- haired ladies in the crowd to see what I was doing wrong. First of all, their dye jobs are much more of the Bergdorf Blonds variety rather than Courteny Love, which is what I've got going on currently. WASPettes (yes, I WILL invoke Jersey Shoreese at this juncture) seem to have an affinity to monogramming, scowling, and anorexia. Also, the theme of the night was "speak softly and carry a big bag." Gotta keep that Xanax somewhere!
Stranger in a strange land.
And this is where the evening ended, like many others that came before. But it did not come to a close until after being chastised by a group of high school girls when Brooke dropped her slice of pizza and the floor and proceeded to consume it without the slightest moment of hesitation. As we parted ways, I turned to Brooke and said, "What shall we do to-morrow? What shall we ever do?" And I threw my head back and laughed with a voice full of poverty.