Just in case you are still traumatized from the family freak show that is Turkey Day, I come bearing more Summer is a Huge Tool Stories to ease the pain. It’s official, babies . . . I have sunk to a new low. I know, I know. I didn’t think it was possible either, but indeed it was. Last weekend, I got so shit faced that I threw up in a sink in a strip club. I threw up. In a fucking sink. In a motherfucking strip club. God, I'm lame!
I haven’t boozed till I hurled in years and frankly, I never planned on doing it ever again. I am still nasally scarred from becoming so well acquainted with the stench of dormitory-Ty-D-Bol during my freshman year of college. And what sucks sick Elephantitis balls so bad is that I’m like a hundred years too old to still be doing this shit. Seriously! And unfortunately for me, I remember the events of the entire humiliating experience in lucid, if not mildly psychedelic detail.
I vividly recall sitting alone at a table in the club. I was wincing into the strobe lights and feeling very proud of sitting up (albeit unsteadily) all by myself. Magically, as if a gift from God, a lit cigarette materialized in my hand. Then in a dream-like sequence, as drunken stupors are so often inclined to yield, my head was tipped back as a girl’s face appeared over mine and she layed a turbo huge kiss on me. On the freaking lips! She must have been giving lap dances to the boys behind me and convinced herself that I needed to be resuscitated. And of course, this all seemed like perfectly agreeable public behavior at the time.
After that random experience, I somehow managed to lurch my way up to the lap dance zone and squeeze myself between my boys on the freaky couch thing. The smoochy stripper took it upon herself to commence educating me in the fine art of lap dancing. In my totally unbiased and self-effacing opinion, I am an absolute prodigy. And I was completely bombed too! Can you imagine if I had been sober? I am clearly a smoking hot stripper in an alternate universe. Oh, alright. If I don’t get a job soon, I'll probably be one in this reality as well. Shut it.
Regardless, at this point in the deliciously flattering story, I was starting to sweat and thus realized that the world was coming to a screeching halt. I thought I was being so incognito by nonchalantly sauntering to the restroom, but Mer psychically sensed the ensuing drama and succeeded in clipping my hair up with superhuman speed. It was so offensively sad that even the strippers were offering their comfort. One chick was patting my head and saying, "It's ok, mama. You're gonna be just fine, mama." They even got me a Sprite and shortly thereafter, I was disgracefully escorted out of the bar. (Insert defeated sigh of shame here.)
I fell/sat down on the ground outside in a state of total mortification with Mer, Rick and Brian all crouching around me, trying to cheer me up by telling me their own vomit-in-public stories. I have to say that these stories were hilariously impressive and one excellently involved an unnamed party having to be transported from the hotel lobby to their room via a luggage cart. How much ass does that story kick? That is truly partying in the spirit of rock and roll.
Anywho, I survived my less than glamorous night of partying like a rock star and I swear that am never drinking or having any sort of fun ever again. I mean it. I am a nun, yo. It's chastity and gesticulating from here on out. Hee hee. Gesticulate. Funny word.
Bacon Dress
It's hawter than yours.
