Sunday, September 16, 2007

Yer Booty Shivers Me Timbers

I will preface this post by saying there is these couple guys I go out with quite frequently to "game" with, where I am their wing-woman (chicks are always suspicious of a group of guys, but when there is a female with them, the dynamic totally changes). One of the guys, I will refer to as "Novice", because he has issues with women and how to talk to them, so I have made it my personal mission to help him find a lady. I like going out with my boys because it discourages random dudes from hitting on me, because when they see me with 2-3 guys, they assume one or all of them are banging me. Not true, but whatever keeps the riff-raff away....

Anyway, so we usually have our shenanigans in uptown, because all of us live there, except for Rico Suave. This evening, we hit downtown instead, which is mediocre at best; another aspect that made this Friday night different than most of our gaming outings was I had a fake pirate flag tattoo on my cleavage. Keeping in mind, I usually stand out anyway, because I'm almost 5'10 (not including heels), have a copious amount of red curly hair, and a big rack... What better to draw attention to us, than a white-trash looking tattoo (side note: I have three real tattoos, all in places out of site, and I feel the "cleavage tattoo" is the pinnacle of underclass tattoos)
The second bar we went to, The Drink (not nearly as kickass as Uptown Drink, and full of pompous displays of idiocy and overall more pretentious), these two women from the navy found me, and thought that I was a lesbian expressly because of the tattoo. So, off we went, wantonly dirty dancing while Landon, Rico Suave, and Novice watched on, and were more than a little jealous.

The night wore on, we hit the Local, Bellanotte (which had the prettiest tranny I have ever seen and she was wearing a gold glitter top hat and kept petting my tattoo...), and a few others. Shots were slammed and drinks clinked as we made our rounds. By the time we made it back to The Drink four hours later, I was not quite blackout-drunk, but I was visiting a nearby state I like to call "sticky shoes" drunk... this is the kind of drunk where the next day the tops of my shoes are sticky like the floor of a candy factory from me spilling cocktails all over them. I had some creepy guy that was monkey dancing near a group of girls come up and start trying to tell me how I needed to put lotion on my tattoo because he could tell by the way it was peeling it was new, and said he could help. I declined his generous offer. Another event made possible by my fake tattoo, was the bucktoothed girl coming up to ask where I had gotten the tattoo at, and where she could get one (it's a very real possibility I laughed in her face and told her to spend the money on birth control). One guy said I was being "stingy" because I would not let him do a cleavage shot, and that EVERY girl who had tattoos on their breast ONLY had them because they wanted guys to do shots out of their cleavage. hmmm... entitlement much?

We ended the night as we usually do-- stuffing our faces with greasy food. If we aren't TOO drunk and have the ability to be patient, we go to the Uptown Diner, but this particular evening, we were nowhere near sober enough to be waited upon (also, last time Landon had passed out in the booth, so we wanted to wait a bit before we made our return). This meant the Soho Cafe, across the street. Now, for a place in uptown that is open past bar close, you would think the people working there would be accustomed to loud drunks. This is NOT so. Every time we come stumbling in, usually talking about something obscene, they give us the dirtiest looks. This time we had some competition for being drunken assholes... a group, much like my own with three guys a chick, only she was the 'shrinking violet' type, and obviously sober cab. So in between bites of stromboli I am going back and forth with this guy about who can hold more liquor. We are going through the laundry list of what we have drank, and finally, Landon is exasperated and says: "JUST PULL OUT YOUR FLASK". This young man I was in debate with did not expect some chick to pull out a flask. He slams his hands down on his table so hard the napkin dispenser almost falls off. "YOU WIN!" he yells. The victory would've tasted so much sweeter, but Novice, who was more sober than all of us could tell we were about to be kicked out. I left triumphantly, with pizza sauce covering my face.

2 comments:

Jonathan said...

Can I throw some white gold on those planks?

Arthur Fonzarelli said...

Your misadventures are highly entertaining.