plumtreeblossom | Kick Out The JAM. I mean really kick him out.

If JAM doesn't hate me, he should. To his functions, I bring beautiful women who wouldn't fuck him for a sack of diamonds, and handsome young men who only add to the competition for JAM in his fruitless co-ed chase.

Overall the party sucked, but it was fun getting all dressed up with the crew --

mdm_sosostris,

goat,

pheromone,

tcb, and

guxx. The Harvard Club is an awkward place for a networking mixer, what with its honeycomb of small rooms and cramped liquor stations. I liked The Ritz better. In various configurations, we circulated through conversations with fellow guests until deciding they were retarded. The best part of the evening was hoofing over to Chinatown for a late dinner.

However, James A. Mitchell (<--- google spiders, go here) gets a globally broadcast bitchslap on his chubby cheek for dissing

guxx. Ever the comfortable networker, Mr. Guxx strolled up to JAM and introduced himself. JAM couldn't have been less interested or less welcoming, and he extracted his larva-like self as quickly as possible in order to pin a hapless young Asian girl in the corner cushy chairs. For your information, JAM, Guxx is a billionaire tycoon and/or a trust fund kid with a private jet parked out on Federal Street and he was all interested in financing one of those leveraged buyouts that you don't really do. But you blew it, squattyboy.

On the way out we found/raided a tableful of nametag stickers of the no-show guests. Now we are mystery networkers with exotic aliases and you'll never find us, JAM.