He was undeterred. We were growing uncomfortable, the bar staff were growing nervous, and people began to leave. I refused to leave, because I still had half a beer left: this was an error on my part. Because he lumbered over and began to get into our faces. "What is you-er prrrrroblem?" he slurred.

I tried to think of the most offensive retort possible. So I said: "Look, just because you're Scottish and cheap doesn't mean you don't have to pay for songs like the rest of us."

This was perfect, it turns out, because he launched into a tirade about how "We oooooowned this country before you did," and declared that he had waaaaay more money than we did. I was tempted to point out that it was England who "owned" us first, and that he probably did, in fact, have more money, given the strength of the euro against the dollar, but I did not. He turned to L and said, "You're a cheeky bitch, aren't you."

I started to laugh, because I didn't know that people actually say "cheeky" and mean it.

L looked at him gravely and said, "I bet you think we're ugly, too."

"You aaaaaahre! You're ugly bitches!"

"That really hurts our feelings," we replied.

"And I have WAAAAAY more money than you."

"And we're ugly."

"Ugly bitches!"

Indeed. The foursome left, but not before he dragged his wife over to thrust her diamond ring in front of us.

Ugly is as ugly does, so I went off to another party where I found myself in a conversation with a young white man from Iowa who was drinking Nyquil and listening to screw, which, it turns out, is other people's rap slowed down.

"I've heard about this screw phenomenon."

"It's what they listen to in H-Town," he said, proffering his headphones. "And they drink this syrup."

"I'm fairly certain that you're talking about Sizzurp, young man, and furthermore, it's made with codeine cough syrup, not Nyquil, which is what poor white kids drink where I come from."

He insisted I was mistaken; all I know is that I am very disappointed by screw, and I have no hope for the future.

[CUE JEREMIAD]

I have this to say about that: You promised us the end of irony four fucking years ago: How many more planes need to crash into buildings in order to make that happen? How many more unfortunate liberal-arts casualties wearing ties and tattoos of circles on their triceps must we endure?

I mean, if you're from Iowa, you should at least be doing crystal meth ironically, no?