The other night I had to meet some friends downtown at Cru for a little late-night wine and food.

I get there and know most of the people, with the exception of this sneering bitch named Ashli (Yes, spelled just like that). Somehow I end up sitting next to Ashli and I reluctantly start talking with her. Then, after a few minutes of conversation she asks, "So you're gay, right?"

I give her the same disgusted look I gave the "genius" at the Apple store when I said I wanted an iPod and they assumed I meant an iPod mini.

"No," I told her. "I'm not gay. At all." She looked confused. "Oh. Sorry."

I tried to not let the fact that this woman assumed I was a little 'mo bother me, and continued on with the conversation. Only after a few more minutes she nonchalantly reached for my glass of fume blanc and took a sip. "Oh, help yourself," I offered as she was in mid-sip.

She looked back at me apologetically, as if she didn't realize what she had just done. "I'm sorry," she offered, "you don't have AIDS or anything, do you?"

That was it. She had stepped on my last nerve. I was about to go off on her when I looked across the table and noticed a pleading look from Jenny, a friend of hers who was normal and who I desperately wanted to sleep with. So I took a deep breath and replied. "No. No I don't have AIDS."

See? I was capable of using my words in a civilized way.

But just when I had reached my zen place I remembered what I had left in my jacket pocket. When she turned her head (probably to insult the person on the other side of her), I swiftly reached into my jacket pocket, gave the bag a look over for good measure, and quickly dumped the contents into her wine glass.

By the time I left Cru a half hour later she had already passed out. "She must just be tired," a friend offered. And while I'm sure if they had bothered to check her pulse they would have come up with a different diagnosis, who was I to correct them?

Dr. Phil (my drug dealer, not the TV therapist) was right; everyone could use some G.