Happy Hour
-B
HH. No it doesn't mean "holding hands" you damned acronym fiends. It means happy hour, and that's what I did after work yesterday with my boy J. It turned out that J had abstained from alcohol for the entire week, completely uncharacteristic of him (and me) considering he's a total alcoholic. I said it before, and I'll say it again, the guy's straight out of an after school special. The kind of guy who probably put vodka in his thermos in second grade, and carried around a huge pack of Big League Chew to cover up the smell. Because of the fact that he hadn't touched alcohol in such a long time, he wanted to get drunk and fast. And that's exactly what we did.
Fast forward and we're at Midtown East. The venue is a place called PS450 and it's filled with yuppies, suits, big dicks and the occasional chubby Jew with a Ronald Mc Donald haircut (J) and skinny short Asian with a Hong Kong superstar haircut (me) wandering around drunk off our asses staring at people and drooling. This is where I learn that I'm a bad wingman. Every time we go out, J goes to work. He seems to have this bar omniscience. Just by glancing over at a chick, he can tell their personality, why they're at the bar, who they're with, the name of their 3rd grade teacher and whether or not they like it in the ass. He's been playing the game so long that it's not surprising. It's really impressive though. Me, on the other hand, I'm completely fucking clueless. A chick could slap me and I'd reply with, "So does that mean you'll call me?"
J approaches two girls, one's a heifer and the other's got potential so he goes at it.
"Check this out, this is B's old ID card and that's how his hair used to be. Tell me, doesn't it look much better now?"
"Yeah, definitely."
Then the two begin some sort of conversation but I'm just standing there like a statue. Then suddenly attention is directed to me and J says, "So what do you think?"
I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl.
"Ummm... what's wrong with your friend?"
"Ummm... I dunno, B, you alright?"
Once again, I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl. Some drool slips this time. Needless to say, the girls stop talking to us.
I stop by a sushi joint on my way home and order the sushi regular. Most of the wasabe at Manhattan sushi places are weak as hell, so I always put a lot into the soy sauce. And I was drunk so I worried that I might be exceptionally numb to it, and ended up adding a lot more than usual. Intense. I love how wasabe just keeps getting more and more intense until you feel like you can't handle it anymore, and then right at the breaking point where you're about to start crying, it dies down. This time, it kept getting more and more intense for like a full minute and I just sat there holding my head together out of fear that my head would explode while thinking to myself, "Ahh... the life of a Manhattanite! It doesn't get much better than this..."
HH. No it doesn't mean "holding hands" you damned acronym fiends. It means happy hour, and that's what I did after work yesterday with my boy J. It turned out that J had abstained from alcohol for the entire week, completely uncharacteristic of him (and me) considering he's a total alcoholic. I said it before, and I'll say it again, the guy's straight out of an after school special. The kind of guy who probably put vodka in his thermos in second grade, and carried around a huge pack of Big League Chew to cover up the smell. Because of the fact that he hadn't touched alcohol in such a long time, he wanted to get drunk and fast. And that's exactly what we did.
Fast forward and we're at Midtown East. The venue is a place called PS450 and it's filled with yuppies, suits, big dicks and the occasional chubby Jew with a Ronald Mc Donald haircut (J) and skinny short Asian with a Hong Kong superstar haircut (me) wandering around drunk off our asses staring at people and drooling. This is where I learn that I'm a bad wingman. Every time we go out, J goes to work. He seems to have this bar omniscience. Just by glancing over at a chick, he can tell their personality, why they're at the bar, who they're with, the name of their 3rd grade teacher and whether or not they like it in the ass. He's been playing the game so long that it's not surprising. It's really impressive though. Me, on the other hand, I'm completely fucking clueless. A chick could slap me and I'd reply with, "So does that mean you'll call me?"
J approaches two girls, one's a heifer and the other's got potential so he goes at it.
"Check this out, this is B's old ID card and that's how his hair used to be. Tell me, doesn't it look much better now?"
"Yeah, definitely."
Then the two begin some sort of conversation but I'm just standing there like a statue. Then suddenly attention is directed to me and J says, "So what do you think?"
I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl.
"Ummm... what's wrong with your friend?"
"Ummm... I dunno, B, you alright?"
Once again, I start twiddling my fingers and giggling like a little schoolgirl. Some drool slips this time. Needless to say, the girls stop talking to us.
I stop by a sushi joint on my way home and order the sushi regular. Most of the wasabe at Manhattan sushi places are weak as hell, so I always put a lot into the soy sauce. And I was drunk so I worried that I might be exceptionally numb to it, and ended up adding a lot more than usual. Intense. I love how wasabe just keeps getting more and more intense until you feel like you can't handle it anymore, and then right at the breaking point where you're about to start crying, it dies down. This time, it kept getting more and more intense for like a full minute and I just sat there holding my head together out of fear that my head would explode while thinking to myself, "Ahh... the life of a Manhattanite! It doesn't get much better than this..."
posted by CEO of the World at 11:21 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home