Of stalkerazzi and etiquette matters

You know, Liz is awfully overdressed for a BYOB thing. I'm also fairly certain that despite the fact that she's invited Warren as her date, this is going to be the Great Moment between her and Granthony -- the sighting across the proverbial crowded room, doncha know. He'll be moonily staring at her looking lovely in the company of a studly guy with a cool job, she'll turn his way just in time to see him drop half a Hostess Powdered Sugar Donette down the front of his brown corduroy suit jacket, she'll find that incredibly endearing and suddenly decide she desires donut-breathed obsession more than hot sex and interesting conversation, he'll blow most of the crumbs out of the pornstache, and she'll be drawn as if by tractor beam into his waiting arms ...

BLEARRRRRRRRGH. HRAAAAWWWGH. KBLAAAARGH. [flush] ptui.

I'm still disproportionately annoyed, btw, by the fact that this superhott party IS BYOB -- adults do not throw celebrations at which refreshments are not provided. You're not in kollege anymore, and it's not some neighborhood block party or family-n-friends potluck type of thing. It's like having a BYOB wedding, for fahq's sake. Gaaaaaaaaaaah. Immature cheapskates! It's like these friends of mine who, whenever they invite you over, they never have beer in the fridge -- they always suggest YOU go out to the corner store and get some for us all to have. Guys, we're all in our thirties -- can we please assume you will offer us refreshment when you invite us to your home? You notice how WE do that for YOU, always? Can we not do the chip-in-two-bucks-and-write-your-name-on-a-solo-cup thing anymore, you cheap bastards? Thanks.