Dude, seriously. No shit, dude.
Friday I got a call from my two roomates who are, like myself, single young bucks. They had started plumbing the depths of a bottle of silver Patron that evening and were looking for trouble.
They wanted me to meet them at a bar when I got out. I was at work and had until 10:30 to sit and rot in this office. I had a rough week and wasn't really in the mood to go chasing skirt at shitty bars in Quincy. I ended up staying home and painting. They shuffled in around 12:30 moaning about how gross all the girls were at the bar. How the two they ended up chatting up were definitely working girls. How every woman at the bar was good from afar, far from good.
It's funny how the madness can take you sometimes. You start thinking you and your douchebag friends are Motley Crue in L.A. circa 1983. You forget that you're normal guys with no real game or desire for bar sluts.
"Dude... tonight is gonna be fucking awesome."
"I know, man right?"
"Fuck yes. Tonight we're gonna do some shots. We'll suit up, and then hit the bars."
"Yeah dude. And chicks will be there and we'll fucking hang out with them and then we'll proverbially destroy their vaginas with various extremities. Like our penises. The sensation will be fantastic."
"Totally. Definitely gonna happen. Lay waste to many a beaver. Let's display contempt for all females by using our penises as whack-a-mole mallets."
"Top shelf idea. Top. Shelf."
Fast forward to four hours later. You're both sitting in your friend's bedroom, with no chicks, air drumming to Iron Maiden, drinking Cape Codders out of measuring cups, trying to ignore the above-stated facts.
My roomates weren't this sad. They both came home, lamented for a few and went to sleep.
Crisis averted.
But remember, young men, your life is not Entourage. You're not a hot shit. You live in some crappy town. This is not Motley Crue's "The Dirt". It's your regular old Friday night. Stay home and do some pullups and a couple hundred hindu squats.
They wanted me to meet them at a bar when I got out. I was at work and had until 10:30 to sit and rot in this office. I had a rough week and wasn't really in the mood to go chasing skirt at shitty bars in Quincy. I ended up staying home and painting. They shuffled in around 12:30 moaning about how gross all the girls were at the bar. How the two they ended up chatting up were definitely working girls. How every woman at the bar was good from afar, far from good.
It's funny how the madness can take you sometimes. You start thinking you and your douchebag friends are Motley Crue in L.A. circa 1983. You forget that you're normal guys with no real game or desire for bar sluts.
"Dude... tonight is gonna be fucking awesome."
"I know, man right?"
"Fuck yes. Tonight we're gonna do some shots. We'll suit up, and then hit the bars."
"Yeah dude. And chicks will be there and we'll fucking hang out with them and then we'll proverbially destroy their vaginas with various extremities. Like our penises. The sensation will be fantastic."
"Totally. Definitely gonna happen. Lay waste to many a beaver. Let's display contempt for all females by using our penises as whack-a-mole mallets."
"Top shelf idea. Top. Shelf."
Fast forward to four hours later. You're both sitting in your friend's bedroom, with no chicks, air drumming to Iron Maiden, drinking Cape Codders out of measuring cups, trying to ignore the above-stated facts.
My roomates weren't this sad. They both came home, lamented for a few and went to sleep.
Crisis averted.
But remember, young men, your life is not Entourage. You're not a hot shit. You live in some crappy town. This is not Motley Crue's "The Dirt". It's your regular old Friday night. Stay home and do some pullups and a couple hundred hindu squats.
posted by Hooker at 11:58 AM
13 Comments:
What bar did they go to?
P-flans.
Club 58 TWICE.
and maybe somewhere else.
best post ever.
"Totally. Definitely gonna happen. Lay waste to many a beaver. Let's display contempt for all females by using our penises as whack-a-mole mallets."
"Top shelf idea. Top. Shelf."
literary mastery. seriously.
And having grown up in the area, the Quincy bars do have that "local flavor" that must be experienced before it is fully thrown aside for more metro environs...
The Fours, Club 58, PFlans, Club 58, Hotel Edwards.
Also this is your best post to date.
I'm glad to see that they picked the worst bars ever to go to on a Friday night. Or any other night for tht matter.
what's so wrong with air-drumoffs and filthy capecodders? i'd take them over hindu squats any day.
-kiley
www.bleeding.com/anus
Gross and/or trashy girls at such a fine establishment as Pat Flanagan's? Shocker!
I agree that this is probably the best post I've read of yours, but since I haven't been reading that long, I don't have all the material to work with.
PS Girls often have similar conversations pre going out as well, minus the wasting lots of beaver part...
I laughed for a good 10 minutes. Bravo, Hooker, and props for not going with them. ;) Though I bet it was funny to watch.
girls have conversations like that?
"becky i am so going to shimmy down onto some dude's boner tonight"
"fuck yeah! i hope i get my hair pulled"
"totally. aren't ballsacks way cool?"
If there's enough liquour, maybe. Minues the cool ballsacks... I don't think I've ever said or thought that.
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