Irresponsible White Men

2 07 2008

After writing the Irresponsibele White Women post, I’d always wondered if they had any kind of comic foil I’d be able to poke fun at later. Lo and behold, I got my answer last Friday night.

I was out on Capitol Hill with five other guys and taking a leak in a secluded area outdoors when I heard one of Chicken Jon’s friends (we’ll call him ‘The Chairman’) in the distance yell “SHE GOT A BADONKADONK!” I could never fully explain how funny it is to hear this phrase yelled in a goofy Vietnamese accent, but it turned quite unfunny when I zipped up and walked back around the corner to see The Chairman and some random white dude in each other’s faces.

Figure 1: Composite sketch of the incident

The white boy was upset about the ‘Badonkadonk’ comment, which apparently had been leveled at the extremely nervous-looking white woman standing behind him and to the right*, so this idiot (accompanied by an equally nervous-looking short black dude who was clearly trying to stay out of it) decides to turn around and interrogate The Chairman about the comment. The argument, which was insanely idiotic, consisted of these statements being repeated in a constant loop:

White Guy: “Dude, were you talking about my girl?”
The Chairman: “This is a private conversation, yo.”

The situation is getting more and more heated and if the white dude throws a punch, all six of us will jump him and he WILL die…so I physically step between the white boy and The Chairman and start making jokes, namely: “If whites and asians fight, the niggers go to jail. Both of you shut the fuck up, please.” I guess that’s far less a joke than it is hard and fast reality, but in any case the black dude found this hysterical, and it was actually enough to get the two to back off from one another – though they both continued talking shit.

Then as the tension was finally relieving itself, some other tiny white dude insists on saying over and over again:

“Just so you’ll know, there’s like 18 cops at the top of the hill. I’m just saying. Alright?”

Now, he wasn’t saying this in a helpful “hey guys, chill out – you could get in trouble” kind of way. Instead, he was saying it in an arrogant “If we fight, the cops’ll be on our [white] side, you colored fucks” kind of way. Fortunately the other white guy, the black guy, and the girl are walking away up the hill and the new idiot realizes he’s being left alone, so he eventually hauls his short squat ass up the hill behind them – all the while still yelling about the cops**

Figure 2: I can’t believe how close this came to happening

The closest I myself have ever come to a real fight since turning 21 (not including the two times some idiot without a weapon tried to mug me in the last 8 weeks) was at Lucky Bar in DC.

Some drunk white girl was falling all over herself, and a scrawny Indian guy tried to carry her out of there. As she was about to slip off him and bust her head open, I reached over and grabbed her shoulder to keep her from falling. Then some knight in popped-collar armor jumps in my face, grabs my arm, and yells “Dude! Dude! Whaddyou think you’re doing?!” I shove the dude off me, at which point he realizes that a.) I’m flanked by seven guys and b.) his own friends are offering ZERO support…yet he refuses to stop talking shit and refused to get out of my face. Next thing I know, there’s a flashlight being waved in our direction and the white dude is being tossed out. The fact that Lucky Bar chose to bounce the white dude instead of the black dude with no questions asked will forever make Lucky Bar cool in my book.

I’ve been trying for a long time to figure out what the hell it is that makes white dudes think they can challenge some guy physically when he’s backed up by an entire platoon of his friends. I don’t think tiny white men harbor any illusions that they’re going to physically kick the asses of six or more minorities all by themselves, so all I can figure is that their arrogance is predicated on the notion that the cops/bouncers/society will always be on their side if the shit goes bad.

Also, in the two incidents just mentioned, I also figure the white boys have a rescue complex and assume that they’ll get laid by the girls they’re either rightfully defending (in The Chairman’s incident) or defending for no reason (in the Lucky Bar incident).

Figure 3: Attention White Men: this is NOT you

I think the movie Fight Club may also share some of the blame. It’s a movie that supports a myth that fighting is easy, punches (both giving and receiving) don’t hurt that much, and white people have unreal pain tolerances. The great thing about Fight Club is that the overwhelming majority of dudes who watched it have probably never been in a real fight and are entirely unfamiliar with the amount of pain involved in getting punched square in the face. This is why guys from rough neighborhoods have a blasé attitude towards Fight Club and view it as a comedy, while nuggets*** from the suburbs absorb everything about the movie with almost a cultish fervor then go out in public hoping to reenact what they’ve just seen.

Every movie Brad Pitt makes results in thousands of irresponsible white men getting their asses kicked.

*Her countenance went from nervousness to sheer terror after seeing a black guy over 6′ emerge from behind a corner and indicate clearly to be on the side of the asians

**Incidentally, he was referring to the dozen or so Federal cops that patrol Capitol Hill on Independence Avenue between 2nd Street SE and 14th Street SW. Those cops were at least 1/4 mile away and would have never heard his screams as I took his scalp lock a prize for my war shirt. Fucking asshole.

***Naval term for a rookie aviator


20 06 2008

Attention Indignant Persians: please read before reading this entry and getting your magic carpet in a knot. Thanks.

The Georgetown Waterfront is one of that only places in DC that doesn’t suck anymore. From March – October, you can hobble your angry ass down to Georgetown Waterfront Park and enjoy drinks outdoors by the water, grab insanely expensive food (with insanely-er bad service) from Sequoia restaurant, and watch scantily clad women walk between M Street and the water while pretending to be indignant about the negative sexual attention they draw to themselves.

Unfortunately, there is one thing about the waterfront that sucks: Persians.

The favorite pastime of the sons of rich Persian oil and IT barons is to get a bunch of their greasy Ferrari-jacket-wearing douchebag friends together, hop on a Sea Ray, and park that motherfucker on the improvised dock in front of the harbor. I’ve included a diagram below to point out the interesting sights you’ll see there:

Figure 1: Click on the image to zoom in

When you park your boat at the dock, you’re within sight of the many women sitting around the bars and restaurants looking for dudes on boats to fuck, but you’re not close enough for them to distinguish your youthful awesomeness from the 50+ year old rich white dudes who’ve also parked their Sea Rays and are gallivanting about in the company of their Stepford wives, Abercrombie sons, and golden fucking retrievers.

So what’s the prospective Persian suitor to do? Blast god awful techno music, of course! Somehow, these sandbags* have convinced themselves that a perpetually alternating woofer-thump and stochattic cymbal is precisely what makes the pussy go “ooh whee.” After all, if it works in porno, it must work in real life. Techno music is so effective at attracting women, in fact, that you never see any women on a Persian boat. This is because their reaction to the electronica, combined with the pungent stank of the Persians’ Sex Panther cologne, has caused all women in the area to orgasm so hard that they literally disappear into thin air.

Figure 2: Persians do not realize this is a comedy

Surprisingly, water-borne Persians are by far the least annoying type of youthful sandbag. That’s because they save their atrocious A-game behavior for the club.

Persians are very easy to spot at a club. Just look for the following telltale signs:

1.) Hair. On a Persian, it will invariably have at least 3 or 4 thousand pounds of gel in it. Nothing drives the ladies wild like a grown man looking like an olive-skinned anime character who may or may not have dynamite strapped to his chest underneath his…

2.) Armani Exchange** Shirt. What better way to say “I’m a pompous shitbrick” than by letting everyone know you paid $60 for a lousy t-shirt? None, dammit!. It’d be rude to actually go up to girls and say “hey, I’m rich. I got a $60 t-shirt”, so instead the Persian takes the humble route and buys the shirt with ‘ARMANI EXCHANGE’ or ‘A|X’ in shiny silver 1,418,071 point font across the chest.

Figure 3: Asshole

This in-your-face fluorescent logo makes it noticeable even in the awesome presence of his…

3.) Jacket of Random Italianness. Girls love Italian shit – sports cars, shoes, handbags, ice – so your Persian ass had damn well better make sure your outfit includes an Italian element. The best way to do this is by wearing a jacket featuring an easily recognizable Italian theme. This is why you see mongoloid sandbags wearing red Ferrari jackets, or red/white/green jackets with an Italian flag and the word ‘Italia’ written in giant retard print across the back.

Figure 4: Asshole, Stage 2

This jacket is never a normal length jacket – it always stops a couple inches above the waist so that a.) it looks like a genuine racing jacket, and b.) it doesn’t cover up the logo on his…

4.) Horrifyingly Expensive Designer Jeans. That’s right folks, only Diesel or True Religion jeans are worthy of encasing the decidedly flat and hairy buttcheeks of the sandbag in their sweet denimy embrace. Wearing anything else would say to the ladies “my jeans cost less than $250, so there’s no way I’d be able to buy you a new set of tits every three years.”

Figure 5: Why would you want pants with a picture of a crane attacking your cornhole?

The sandbag stands tall and proud as the ladies take in the jeans’ fake fade, giant pre-cut holes, and painted-on wrinkle patterns…and they have to practically FIGHT themselves not to jump right on his cock when they see his…

5.) Shoes of Random Italianness. The shoes must always match the jacket in both color and refined sportiness, so the Persian sandbag will be seen wearing some sort of Ferrari-brand Pumas at least 110% of the time. Don’t be afraid if you accidentally scuff his shoes though, because Puma-related homicides are exclusively committed by black people.

*This is what I call douchebags from the middle east.
**I’ll admit that I own a lot of shit from Armani Exchange. But unless you get within six inches of me, you’ll never know it, because I’d sooner die than buy the shit where the AX label is clearly visible


20 05 2008

Alcohol is a drug that’s as interesting as it is infuriating. Almost anyone over the age of 18 can recall some experience where alcohol has made them do something they consider to be absolutely fucking retarded:

  • 100lb men taking home 300lb women, and vice versa
  • Vomiting in public
  • Urinating in public
  • Urinating on the public
  • Loss of pants, shirt, shoes
  • Talking to women/men way out of your league
  • Black people dancing like white people
  • White people dancing like themselves
  • Koreans dancing with non-Koreans

Alkey is interesting, though, because the ‘kind’ of drunk you get depends on the kind of alcohol you are drinking. Let’s see how the average drunken night out progresses for an individual based on what they choose to drink – beer, wine, or liquor.

9:00pm – Pregaming

Beer Drinker: The beer drinker loves the pregaming period, and the younger he is, the better. Young people like beer because, like Mexican day labor, it’s cheap and it’s everywhere. The beer drinker will pop open several cans/bottles of beer and down them one after the other, with increasing speed, relishing the relatively inexpensive buzz that builds slowly over the next 1.5 – 2 hours. You will pay dearly for this later.

Wine Drinker: If you start off the night with a glass of wine, you’re probably a pompous asshole. If you start off the night with a bottle of wine, you are probably a friend of mine. In either case, you are drinking wine because you’re aware of the fairly ‘smooth drunk’ effect that comes from getting drunk off it. Your knowledge of euphoric wine crunkitude this allows you to tolerate your friends constantly referring to you as “fag”.

Liquor Drinker: the way you take your hard liquor during the pregame defines how the rest of your night will go. Starting off with something sweet like Rum & Gingerale means that you’re probably going to take it easy for the rest of the night. Starting off with a car bomb and a shot of Absinthe means that you’re probably going to wind up crashing a black-tie ball at an embassy wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt, and spend most of your night trying to convince people that your black ass is Irish.*

11:00pm – Arrival

Sooner or later the pregaming will stop and you’ll wind up at a bar or some godforsaken club

Beer Drinker: After pounding back 12 beers in 2 hours, you have to piss like a racehorse. You didn’t take a leak at the pregaming venue because you drink beer to get drunk and are therefore an idiot. If the group puts you in charge of talking to the doorman, the night’s over: you are clearly drunk, you are doing the pee-pee dance, and there’s no way the bouncer’s letting you in to urinate all over the carpet.

Wine Drinker: After 4 – 5 glasses of wine, you feel ‘delicious’. You know you’re drunk, and you feel all the good effects of being drunk without the bloating, stumbling, bad breath, and other side effects – so other people just think you’re really really really happy, or possibly high. The bouncers assume that your euphoric demeanor = wealth, and let you and your beer swilling friends right in.

Liquor Drinker: Whether you’ve been pounding Patron or Black Russians, you’re not completely drunk just yet. Unlike the beer drinker, you’re not miserable with a bloated, barley-induced intoxication. Unlike the wine drinker, though, you had to cut back toward the end of the pregame so you’d be able to stumble to the club without faceplanting at your buddy’s doorstep. By the time you get to the venue, you’re damn near sober again. It becomes clear at this point that you will wind up spending an inordinate amount of money to get drunk

12:30am – Mingling

Beer Drinker: It took you five minutes to empty your bladder, but you still haven’t learned your lesson. You are now doublefisting Coronas and trying to chat someone up. Unfortunately, if you’re a guy, your breath is repulsive from the hops and girls assume beer drinkers are poor. If you’re a girl, guys assume that girls drinking beer are a.) underage or b.) another guy bought them the beer. In any case, you lose – but you don’t really care because you have to pee again.

Wine Drinker: Being the pompous douchebag that you are, you continue ordering glasses of wine despite the difficulty of carrying around a wine glass in a club. As you sip classily amidst couples freaking each other to the sounds of Soulja Boy, you slowly begin to realize how ridiculous you look. You pound back the glass of wine like a shot and, now sans drank, find someone to holler at. If you’re a guy and are seen without a drink of any kind, girls assume you’re a cheap bastard and refuse to talk to you. If you’re a girl and are seen without a drink, the guy will probably ask if he can get you one. When you see the look on his face after saying “Chardonnay”, you realize that you might as well have pointed at your uterus and said “I need you to put a baby here!”

Liquor Drinker: Since you arrived at the club sober, you want to get drunk as quickly as possible to minimize the expense. You start ordering shots. Ordering shots is a great way to start mingling if you’re a guy, especially if you’re ordering rounds with friends, because bachelorette parties seem to have some kind of radar for detecting this shit. When you hear some chick behind you yell “WOOOOO TEQUILA!!!!”, you know you’ve hit paydirt**. If you’re a girl, ordering a round of shots is a good way to get some shmuck guy to order your next round. In either case, after about six shots you’re starting to feel the stumbles again, and you begin to realize that life is going to mop the floor with your ass very shortly.

2:00am – Riot

The same thing applies at this point to all types of drinkers. The alcohol is in full effect, and right now everyone is feeling delicious – even the beer drinker who, by now, has finally realized that drinking liquor is more cost-effective and less taxing on the bladder.

You and your friends are sex-dancing with people you would never even look at under normal circumstances. You are spilling alcohol all over yourself and others, and no one seems to care. Some of your more shy friends are wallflowering and waiting to get noticed – but in the meantime they’re pointing and laughing (very noticeably) at the group of tiny asian women that you see at every club putting way too much effort into their dancing. Your less-shy friends are getting (or giving) head in the bathroom.

Enjoy it fucker, because things are about to get real bad real soon…

3:30am – Munchies

Upon exiting the club, you realize for the first time in 7 hours that you are indeed made of flesh. You MUST have food…

Beer Drinker: You feel like a burlap sack full of asses. You are bloated, full, and you have to pee AGAIN. You feel like you could vomit at any moment, but you’re drunk enough to think that eating a bunch of greasy post-night-out food is going to make you feel better. You eat something ridiculous like a big ass gyro or empanada. If you’re really dumb, you head to a 24 hour diner and eat a full fucking breakfast.

Wine Drinker: Still euphoric, you have no desire for lay foods like jumbo slice pizza. Your pompous ass still has a reasonable appetite, and you’re trying to figure out if you’d like to have some brie and crackers with a glass of white, or hummus and olive oil with pita bread. The fact that you can still stand, think, and talk to members of the opposite sex without saying “HEY LADY! YOU GOTTA BUTT THAT WON’T QUIT! GIGGIDY!” enrages your friends. They continue calling you a “fag”.

Liquor Drinker: By now, you’ve already thrown up at least once. If you’re a real lady or gentleman, you vomited discreetly on one of the walls in the darkest corner of the venue. In either case, you are definitely hungry and will accept nothing less than the greasiest most unhealthy food within stumbling distance of your present location. While the beer drinker feels too sick to notice his drunkenness, you feel dizzy and disoriented and are noticing the shit out of it. Your life fucking sucks.

4:30am – Disaster

No one is happy but the wine drinker. Now loaded with greasy horrendous food that you wouldn’t even be able to keep down on a healthy stomach, the beer and liquor drinkers’ bodies are failing all over the place. They are vomiting in taxi cabs and on parked cars. They are urinating on houses and government buildings. They are sleeping in people’s lawns or in their own cars with the engines running. Some have uncontrollable ‘beer shits’ and are crapping mercilessly in the shrubbery of unsuspecting dormant locals. The person’s insides are effectively declaring their independence from the rest of the body (the brain in particular), and are making their exit as quickly as possible to search for greener pastures.

When the beer and liquor drinkers get home, they will be unable to sleep because the room is spinning. They will spend the next hour getting very familiar with the toilet, violently vomiting and shitting, and all they can hope for is not to do both at the same time. They will wake up with a pounding headache, nausea, and breath that smells like a dog’s ass. They will remember less than 40% of the previous night’s happenings.

The wine drinker is at home, eating soft cheese, watching a DVD as he/she falls soundly asleep.

*Yes, this happened to me

**This girl is probably great in bed. But keep in mind that she will be, without question, insane.


31 03 2008


Figure 1: Ugh…

The clubbing experience is, at its core, a very depressing one. When you arrive at a club you will be presented with an unfathomably vast cornucopia of bullshit that will assail your senses like crashing surf for upwards of four hours. So let’s go together, you and I, on an item by item safari through this social horn of plenty, starting with…

  • The Guest List: To get into a lot of good clubs (at least in DC) you have to be on one of these goddamn lists, and this is the stupidest fucking concept ever because in DC it’s not even hard to get on the list. To get on the stupid goddamn list you either have to a.) know a promoter (or someone who knows them), or b.) print out one of those ridiculous flyers on the club’s website. This sucks for everyone because a.) promoters are usually idiots who simply put the names of their equally idiotic friends on the list, and b.) why the fuck do I need a stupid fucking flyer? If I ever open a club, the ‘door policy’ will consist of me letting in 10 hot chicks for every 1 dude who passes a ‘Dipshit Test’ (which 90% of men will fail MISERABLY). It will also consist of my biggest and strongest bouncer bludgeoning people I deem to be…
  • Corporate Douchebags: This is the jackass that just graduated from college, has a bullshit job, makes $60,000 per year, and thinks he’s King Kong because he just pulled up to the club in a brand new 3-Series BMW.


    Figure 2: Asshole

    This asshole is usually asian, indian, or white. He has a metric ton of gel (or Soul-Glo) in his hair, wears square-toed black Bruno Maglis, and is otherwise covered in crap from Banana Republic or J. Crew. He will brag to chicks about his bullshit job and symbols of ‘wealth’ all night. He will not mention that he lives with roommates, does not own his home, and can’t do his own laundry. You’ll recognize this guy by your sudden and barely controllable urges to punch him in the spine. This is not to be confused with…
  • Athletic Douchebags: this genus of ‘bag’ is usually black, but will occasionally be white or even asian. He will show up to the club wearing a combination of $300 sneakers, clean but very baggy jeans or white ‘designer’ track pants, and some kind of track or track-derived jacket to match the pants worn atop a huge t-shirt/man-dress that contrasts sharply with the jacket (red and white is a popular combo these days).


    Figure 3: The rare white athletic douchebag

    His hair will be unnaturally wavy, usually as a result of being employed at McDonald’s – where wearing a stocking on your head during the workday is both accepted and encouraged. This asshole will also wear shades even though it’s the middle of the fucking night, and will be covered in shiny faux jewelry worth about as much as a heroin-addict’s piss.

The guest lists and douchebags are horrible, but the pain has only just begun. Once we move closer to the door, we will inevitably encounter…

  • The Douchebitch: I generally discourage calling any woman a bitch, but the person I’m about to describle is a fucking VILE, SNARLING, HOSTILE BITCH in every sense of the phrase.


    Figure 4: Applied douchebitchery

    This is the girl who thinks she’s way more attractive than she actually is, and should therefore be given star treatment like she’s Beyonce fucking Knowles. This girl is equally likely to be a member of any race – douchebitches will be black, white, asian, hispanic, etc. with alarming uniformity. She sneers with contempt at every single person in the venue, will demand a drink at your table, grits ferociously on the girls in the club that are actually pretty, and spends the entire evening railing about how “there ain’t no real ballers up in here” (or whatever the white/asian/indian/hispanic equivalent of this phrase is). This is in spite of the fact this chick is, herself, a complete waste of human life. If she’s lucky enough to be employed, she makes $9 an hour. She knows nothing about current events. She does not read for leisure. She has never exercised in her entire life, notwithstanding the half-crunch she does every morning to get out of bed. She doesn’t know how to cook. She doesn’t even enjoy people. She sucks, but not quite as much as…
  • The Bouncer: a bouncer is a large man whose life is utterly meaningless between Sunday and Thursday.


    Figure 5: Hates his life 5/7 of the time

    But for two glorious nights, this meat popsicle holds the keys to your very soul. He controls your ability to enter the club, and he can ‘bounce’ you out of the club at any time and for virtually any reason. He feels cool because he gets to wear one of those little earpieces like Secret Service agents. If he wants to impress a girl by looking important, he’ll put his finger up to his ear and assume a concerned facial expression so it looks like he’s receiving critical information from a very important person – e.g. “drunk chick vomiting in the third floor bathroom, please respond” from the busboy with questionable immigration status. Once the bouncer lets you in, you’re almost certain to find a bunch of dudes who have reserved…
  • Tables: there are two types of men that reserve tables, and therefore there are two types of tables. One is the ‘Practical Table’. This table is populated by sensible men who realize that it’s cheaper and more convenient to do bottle service than wait for drinks at the bar if your primary aim is to get drunk. You’ll recognize this table by the fact that its occupiers are huddled in a circle, drinking as fast as they can, and ignoring everyone and everything else in the club. I see nothing wrong with this table, probably because usually that’s MY fucking table. But then there’s the other table: the ‘Pompous Table’. This is the table populated by idiotic men who, since they’re sitting at a table behind a velvet rope, think they’re all P. Diddy and that girls should be knocking each other over to leap onto their cocks.


    Figure 6: Yet another sad truth…

    You’ll recognize this table by the fact that it’s occupiers are standing nowhere near the table itself, instead opting to hover near the rope with their hands in their pockets, gazing hopelessly at women who are as out of their league as they are uninterested in them, in spite of their stupid fucking table.

So now that we’ve pushed our way through the first six degrees of stupidity, we arrive at the dance floor. Here we will witness a dizzying array of social offenses. Let’s start with…

  • The Sneak Up: every girl has been through this. You’ll be dancing and minding your own business when next thing you know there is a grimey dude behind you thrusting his cock imprint betwixt your butt cheeks. He did not ask to dance with you, and he did not introduce himself.


    Figure 7: But friggin’ Goldilocks here is practically begging for it

    All you can be sure of is two things: a.) he’s probably ugly, because otherwise he wouldn’t have been afraid to approach you head on, and b.) he’s probably socially awkward for the exact same reason. A girl whose been ‘snuck’ will roll her eyes angrily and humor the offender for a minute or so, or try to subtly scuttle off to some other part of the dance floor. That is, unless she’s rescued by one of two forms of cock blocking, the first of which is…
  • Blockery by Mockery: this has been tuned to perfection by black women. This is where a girl’s friends will mock with merciless fervor a guy they deem to be unsatisfactory until he finally runs away with his balls tucked between his legs*. This is a much more confrontational but far less annoying tactic than that preferred by white/asian women, which is…
  • Body Snatching: unlike the mockery method, the Body Snatch tends to be executed for no good fucking reason. Even if the girl is actually interested in you (i.e. you’re making her laugh, and you’re both happy and smiling) – her friends will swoop in like the buzzards they are an relieve you of each other’s company, dragging the girl by the arm away from you even if it’s against her will. The ‘why’ behind women doing this has never been adequately explained to me, so I’m simply going to assume it happens because all women secretly hate each other and want their female friends to be as unhappy as they are.

Let’s not pick on the ladies, though. We gentlemen are also executors of two unacceptable methods of blockery, the first of which is…

  • Blockery by Proximity: this is where a man’s friends refuse to disperse when he’s started dancing with a girl. Instead of scattering to the four winds like they’re supposed to, they hover three feet away from you, immobile as fucking Easter Island statues intimidating the bajeezus out of the poor girl who has no choice to feel like she’s about to get Eiffel Towered in a bathroom somewhere. The girl will inevitably run off, leaving the victim male with no choice but to retaliate later with the second method of blockery…
  • Injection: ever been chatting up a girl when your fucking friend leaps uninvited into the conversation to introduce himself? That’s injection, and it should be a fucking felony. Suddenly you’ve gone from being a cool guy to being the guy with the idiot friend which, by extension, makes you an idiot for having him as a friend. Being victimized by injection creates the rare circumstance where it’s actually OK to kick another man in the nuts.

Alas, the end is drawing nigh. It’s 3:30am, and the final chip falls:

  • The Closing Lights: when all the lights suddenly come on at the end of the night, you realize just how much of a disaster your life is. Somewhere in the room, a tipsy girl realizes she’s been dancing all night with a man who could be legally classified as a dwarf. Elsewhere, a drunken guy comes to the understanding that he just made out with his cousin. People are vomiting everywhere. Mascara and makeup are running down the sweaty faces of women making them look like Sweet Tooth from Twisted Metal.

You survey all the damage around you. The spilled beer, the mixing straws all over the floor, the drunken stragglers squinting against the harshness of the lights, the unfulfilled dreams, the broken promises, the horror of it all…

You feel like Charlie Sheen at the end of ‘Platoon’.


Figure 8: Yep.

*I am aware this is where the balls are tucked all the time, but it’s a figure of speech. So gimme a fucking break.