Notes From the Underground

So much butt-eating, so little lime

We sat down to play Asshole, which I hadn't played since college, and all the blissful authoritarianism of it came rushing back. A card game, each hand determines the rankings of the players, and anyone who is ranked below you—from the president at the top down to the bottom of the pile, the pathetic "Asshole"—must do anything you say and with respect.

It's fabulous, a bit of social engineering very like the old study in which blue-eyed students were deemed superior to the brown-eyed and immediate Nazism ensued.

Simply, when I play Asshole, I become an overbearing martinet of a drill sergeant to those below me and a toadying ass-licker to those ranked above. "Yes, sir," I say when told to drink. "Absolutely, Mr. President." Rebellions, in the form of drinking too slowly or making uppity eye contact—or in the case of one guy, serially pretending not to hear orders—are put down with prejudice.

Sadly, our game ended (only one beer in, which was actually a very good thing) when a whole bunch of pretty rockabetties showed up all at once. I was Madame Secretary of Defense no more. Grrr, pretty girls! Grrrr!

Drink now and e-mail Commie Girl at
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