You're not the type of fag who Cock Blocks his Friends...

...but you are certainly entitled to be amused when such sorrowful events play out. The Germans have a word for getting pleasure from other people's misfortunes: schadenfreude. You heart the Germans, well the Post-WWII Germans, anyway. Adolf Hitler? Not so much.

So you and the Boy Luck Club go to this random birthday party last night and it's super fun. One of your friends with a Half-Share apparently knows the Host because they're neighbors on Fire Island, and, ironically, by the time you arrive at the party it feels just like Low Tea. It's a beautiful apartment full of wall-to-wall boys, all age-appropriate, all double-fisted with cocktails, and Kelly Clarkson is even playing. Nice.

However, none of this really matters. Smash cut to your hangover. When you finally pull yourself out of bed your email inbox is gleaming with good news from your flight attendant friend who allegedly hooked up with some cute boy, that you allegedly met, yet don't recall, even though the three of you allegedly shared a cab home. Anyway. Jet Blew took his Trick home where the two boys Flew the Friendly Skies all night long. However, this morning the Trick overslept and raced out of Jet Blew's apartment without leaving his number. You have your doubts about the so-called facts, but Jet Blew is rather distraught because he really thought he had a real connection with this boy.

You humor your friend, even though you yourself have often pulled the harried "I'm-Late-For-Work-Brunch-Funeral" exit in order to minimize the overwhelming embarrassment of a Coyote Ugly morning. So you forward Jet Blew's email to Half-Share who forwards it to the Party Host, and thanks to the ever-irritating Reply All button, you are kept apprise of each and every gory detail as the chain letter ping-pongs its way around the five boroughs throughout the day. You're actually okay with the flurry of emails clogging your inbox because they turn out to be a huge help in filling in the gaps of Blackout Barbie's evening without having to blow your cover.

You're busy OD'ing on Advil when you receive an email from Evite with a subject that reads: "Looking for Christopher..." The Evite was sent out to all 169 guests on the party mailing list and it reads as follows:

"One of our guests would like to get in touch with a boy he met last night named Gregory-- black t-shirt, jeans, goatee, originally from Pennsylvania, works at Louis Vuitton. Anyone know this lucky fellow?"

Your cell rings before you even finish reading the email and it's Jet Blew who is screaming bloody murder before you even get a chance to say Hello. "I just got fucking Cock-Blocked by Evite!" Jet Blew is absolutely mortified. You, however, begin to giggle uncontrollably with an extreme case of schadenfreude, which, by the way, ends up being an excellent hangover remedy. Anyway.