These Two Can’t Wait Until 2002 Is History

“Bartender, a shot of Jack Daniels. And keep ‘em coming.”

The man at the end of the Newport Beach bar couldn’t help but overhear the lonely figure four stools down. “Got those end-of-the-year blues, huh?” he asked sympathetically.

“In spades,” the bourbon man said, knocking back what he fully expected to be the first of many. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of year I had. 2002 can’t end soon enough for me.”

“I hear you, my friend,” the other said. “I’m not looking for a contest, but I doubt your year was any worse than mine.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink, and we’ll see about that. What’ll you have?”

“Just a ginger ale, thanks.”

“That’s no way to forget your troubles, but have it your way. OK, you go first.”

No Mo

“Would you believe Mo Vaughn was a neighbor of mine until the Angels traded him? All because of that, I put him on my Fantasy League baseball team, and the guy stunk up the joint.”

“That’s it? Listen to this: I was an Angels’ season ticket holder for 28 years -- until last winter when I gave them up.”

“You got me there.”

“It gets worse. The only reason I gave up my Angels tickets was so I could buy Lakers tickets this season.”

“Ouch. Let me buy the next round. OK, how does this sound: I voted for Tony Rackauckas for district attorney and convinced my friends to do the same. Now they won’t speak to me.”

“Big deal. I had to give a testimonial for the guy at a black-tie dinner last summer. Within six months, he’d been chastised by the county grand jury, the state attorney general and the county auditor. He’s been examined more often than a dead frog in a ninth-grade biology class.”

“Got me again, but try this on for size. I lived next door to Tawny Kitaen and Chuck Finley for six months. Had to listen to all their ruckuses. What a pair.”

“Normally, I’d feel sorry for you, but you won’t believe this. After they separated, I was surfing the Web to meet somebody online. I wound up on a blind date with Tawny. She spent the whole night telling me how much she hated left-handed pitchers.”

“Brother, you have had an incredible year. What’d you do to deserve such a string of luck?”

Hard Luck

“You tell me,” he said, before ordering his third Jack. “But I’m just getting going. After waiting since I was a teenager for four other cousins to die off, this was the year I was going to get the summer rental cottage at Crystal Cove. I got the contract to print up the ‘Tom Coad for Supervisor’ bumper stickers. I had an ‘Eat Free Forever’ prize for Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant at California Adventure. I went to parenting class with Grady and Deborah Machnick. For six weeks, I carpooled with Kathy McCullough and Peter Herzog. I got up at 4 a.m. on Easter Sunday to watch TBN broadcast sunrise services at the Hollywood Bowl. I had an electric car. My girlfriend converted to Islam. I bought stock in a company that planned to ship cargo out of an El Toro Airport. I was going to manage Judge Kline’s reelection campaign. I gave Dana Rohrabacher my cell phone number.”

“Stop, you’re killing me with these stories. I just wish there was something I could do to cheer you up.”

“That’s what these dead soldiers are for,” he said, pointing to the row of shot glasses.

“Can I get you another ginger ale? I know I’ve gone on too long. I apologize for all the complaining. Hey, I forgot to even ask you what you do for a living.”

“I’m a priest.”

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Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821 or by writing to him at The Times’ Orange County edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail to dana.parsons@latimes.com.