I Swear to Drunk I’m Not God: An Embarrassing Tale

My Saturday started like any other Saturday. I slept late, lounged around the house for a while, and ran a couple errands. Then I was faced with the all too familiar thought, “What the hell am I going to do today?” In search of a party or interesting event, I scrolled through my Facebook and Instagram timelines but found nothing but food pics and “f*** bitches get money” statuses. That didn’t work so I scrolled through my contacts. One friend had to work all day. Another was out of town. A third didn’t answer his phone. The fourth was down to hang out.

To the Batmobile.

I made the commute to homie #4’s house with the wind blowing through my hair and Drake’s Nothing Was the Same album on full blast.

Today was going to be a good day.

Today was going to be a good day.

As I pulled up to his house I sent the text telling him I was outside.

“Be out in 5.” He responded.

20 minutes later he climbed in and we made our way to a bar he wanted to try out. As I pulled into the parking lot I was shocked at how secluded this place was. The bar was  surrounded by trees and long winding roads. For a second, I thought he was going to murder me and steal my Drake album but I remembered that I had my handy dandy pepper spray in the center console. I was always ready for action. Fortunately, it didn’t come down to that so we went inside for drinks.

Upon entering I immediately noticed how much older the patrons were. These people were in their 30’s and 40’s and were having discussions about their kids’ first year in college and how they were there to escape their nagging wives. It wasn’t exactly the place to be for a handsome young gentleman on the prowl like myself. Anyway, we went to the bar to order drinks. #4 ordered a whiskey sour and I just gave a weak, unmotivated “I’ll have what he’s having”. I always wanted to say that but the opportunity wasn’t as glorious as I imagined it would be. After a couple drinks, I started to get hungry.

The cool thing about this place was that on one side was a bar, but on the other side was a carry-out. I grabbed my glass, traversed my way to that side, ordered some wings, grabbed my ticket number, and took a seat. Just then, a group of 4 beautiful young women came in.

She looked something like this. I love you Jhene Aiko.

She looked something like this. I love you Jhene Aiko.

The young lady who caught my eye was some sort of mix between Asian and black, with long black hair running down her back (no rhyme intended, I guess Drake was rubbing off on me). I immediately thanked the lord that her parents met and created such a flawless work of art. They ordered their food and sat in a booth that was in clear eye’s view of me. I had to plot my move.

For most men, talking to one beautiful woman is intimidating enough. They would never imagine approaching a group of them in hopes of talking to a single one. It was a suicide mission. Fortunately for me, the whiskey in my system told me go for it, you only live once! Thanks alot Drake. I grabbed my drink and with the bravery of a horny Aztec warrior, I made my move. I swiftly glided over and took a seat and they all greeted me warmly. Great. This was actually going better than expected. Now before I walked over, I already noticed that the girl I was interested in was sort of keeping to herself while the other three were having their own conversation; most likely about what they would have done if they were Ray Rice’s wife or the latest episode of Scandal. I originally planned to say something along the lines of “Are your friends being jerks and leaving you out of their conversation?” But since I was tipsy and more uncomfortable than a priest in a strip club, the only thing that came out was:

“Your friends….are…jerks.”

Way to go. I really f***** myself over on that one. As I was stuttering like a fool and trying to correct myself,  I accidentally spilled my drink on myself. It looked like a hobo pissed whiskey all over me.

“Oh my God, are you drunk!!!??”

I couldn’t even begin to describe the embarrassment. Just then my order number was called. The way I snatched those chicken wings and scurried off you would mistake me for Adrian Peterson taking a handoff. I quickly located my friend and told him we had to leave. Immediately.

I should have had Dos Equis instead.

I should have had Dos Equis instead.

You see, for some men, alcohol turns them into charming, smooth talking versions of the most interesting man in the world.

Apparently, it turns me into a bumbling, clumsy, mumbling, walking vagina repellent. I wonder how Drake would have handled the situation.

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