The PlayStation Lady Still Thinks I'm A Poofter, Even Though She Touched Ma Ghoolies.

So THAT launch actually went off okay, huge success (woot woot, yay me), but I still hadn't had the chance to explain to the PlayStation lady that I do, in fact, prefer girls.

Like I said, because PlayStation was one of the clients at our agency, we got the perks of brand new games, new hardware, product parties and the like. We also got the job of planning these parties and launches, and going to the VIP events around the country.

I got my chance for hetero-explanations a few weekends later when we launched another PS2 game, this time at the local quarter-mile drag strip, Wesbank Raceway.

I had it all planned, and hadn't even used the word 'partner' in a sentence during three briefing sessions. I'd avoided wearing my lilac golf shirt and tasseled loafers together, quit lisping, and entirely chucked my habit of drinking fuzzy navels at the post-meeting drink sessions.

Cut to launch evening.

I'm sure most of you have seen Fast & the Furious, with the whole street racing palaver: Bucket loads of blonde-legged fluffies in belt-wide dresses, an army of vest-wearing, brandy&coke swigging, steelcapped petrolheads and some really, really souped-up cars, a dazzling array of chitty-chitty bling-bling.

Cut a short story long, anyone who rocks up can have a go at the quarter-mile, and, probably because I had a burning desire to prove my straightedness, (and possibly because of the burning pain in my spleen) I asked the PlayStation lady if she felt like joining me on a run down the strip.

Alrighty then.

Strapped in?
"Strapped in"

Helmet on?
"Helmet on."

Pray to Jeebus?
"Who?"
Nevermind.

Hammer down.
"An excruciatingly loud female screech, followed by a surprisingly vice-like grip, not on the Honda centre console, but on Andrew's centre console, namely his scrotal area."

I'd like to think that in situations such as this, God has a plan.

God's plan obviously entailed me screaming like a girl, narrowly missing the sidewall as I instinctively mashed the accelerator even more, grabbing at my mashed goolies, skipping a gear, and swearing loudly "Sweetbuggeryfuckwoman! whatthefuckareyoudoing!?!" at the world in general.

If that isn't really God's plan, then the devil really is a bit of a wanker.

When we eventually came to a halt, all she could say was "Jesus, you scream like a chick."

And look at me in that "I bet you know The Lumberjack Song off by heart" kind of way.

After that, she just kind of waddled away.

A dark spreading stain making its way along her bottom, tears of joy dribbling down her thighs...