A parfit, gentil nyght

Tonight, I played a fun game with the dyke friend. Imagine that you are able to throw a dinner party, inviting six other people - dead or alive, from any point in history. The person sitting opposite you will be the guest of honor, at the head of the table.

I selected Woody Allen as the guest of honor, wanting someone whose honored presence will no doubt cause all other attendees to exclaim "so, what the fuck is this man doing at the head of the table?" And then compare curricula vitae. The other attendees are: bell hooks, Mr. and Mrs. Bill Clinton, Joan of Arc, Chaucer, and a Girl I'm Trying To Shag. Given the company, I was pressured into picking at least one radical lesbian feminist, and thus a lovechild between Kim Jong Il and Fidel Castro got the boot.

Seating arrangements are crucial.

Since the budget is limited, Joan of Arc will not be provided with a translator. But really, Joan of Arc is only on the list because she's sure to prompt "Joan of the fucking Arc? What are you all about?" from everyone at the table. The complete inability to understand her will further frustrate the guests, and especially bell hooks, who will spark someone, wielding a three-pronged fork, to say "jam this up your cunt, you uppity bitch!" before the evening is over - probably Hillary.

Bill Clinton will fume the whole night because Chaucer is cock-blocking him, but will no doubt offer to perform tireless cunnilingus on bell hooks, as suggested when he makes an ill-timed joke about reparations.

I'm sure that Woody Allen's French is good enough to mumble a few awkward one-liners - something about the "maidenhood of Orleans" - and maybe Chaucerian English is somewhat mutually intelligible with the French of around the same time.

Chaucer will be provided with a translator, an expert of Chaucerian literature, but the translator will only chime in when absolutely necessary. And if he goes into windy diatribes about ME etymology, I reserve the right to throw fruit at him. Chaucer is sitting across from Girl I'm Trying To Shag. He's really just there to get her in the mood, but at a safe distance - across rather than beside GITTS - because he's also got the designation of most-likely-to-whip-his-cock-out.

The question: Would God tell JoA to hook up with the twitchy Jew or the bawdy 14th century lush. Most likely Woody Allen, who will slyly convince JOA that he is G-d, utilizing a few theater techniques that weren't available in the 1420s.

And, the meal served will be like traditional Jewish passover, for the guest of honor - and the Girl I'm Trying To Shag, who's probably a lovely Jewess. And since most women tend to do the opposite of what bell hooks suggests, I'm almost certain to get a shag out of all this.

What does your table look like?