My friend Jess' 22nd birthday was a week ago. She didn't know where to have her party, so I happily offered my house back in March. Three reasons for this:
1. I like having parties and gatherings at my place because it allows me to drink as much as I want without worrying about driving home. I've never gotten into trouble for drinking and driving, but I've had too many friends ruin their lives because they've crashed into poles and trees after having way too many beers. In fact, one of my dad's former employees drove his car into a restaurant a few years ago.
2. Jess is my friend, and she also happens to be a girl. Being a guy, shopping for girls is next to impossible. I can't buy them clothes, because I don't know what looks good, and I can't figure out all of the sizes. You'd think they'd make it easy - small, medium, large, extra large, Rosie O'Donnell - but there are numbers and shapes and stuff. For example, I've heard a girl once say, "I'm a size two circle." And then another said, "Well I'm a size zero rectangle." What the hell is that?
Offering Jess my house for her party would allow me to get out of purchasing a gift - though I did end up buying her something cool. More on that later.
3. As you may know, getting raped by a hot chick or an average-looking girl is one of my life goals. It's been scientifically proven that having a party at your place increases the chances of that tenfold (source: Wikipedia). Consider the following sample conversation:
Dude Hosting the Party: Doo doo doo doo doo, I'm going to bed. Hark, who is this female in my bed?
Hot Chick or Average-Looking Girl: Oh noez, I got lost, and now I'm sleeping in your bed. I will also rape you. Be prepared to get raped.
Dude Hosting the Party: YEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSS, MY DREAMS HAVE COME TRUE!!! I mean, cough, cough, NOOOOOO PLEASE DON'T RAPE ME!
Anyway, I told Jess that she could have her party. As I said, this was back in March, and her party was slated to be in mid-May, so I didn't think about it because I was so busy with the 2012 NFL Draft in April. I did talk to my friend A-Team though, who asked me if I received Jess' Facebook invitation to some type of mustache party. I immediately logged onto Facebook, and sure enough, Jess' birthday party had a mustache theme.
I asked Jess about this, and she said she would not let anyone into my house who didn't have a mustache. Many people would end up drawing mustaches with markers or wearing fake mustaches, but I went all out and grew my own.
As a man of eastern European descent, I grow facial hair very quickly. If I don't want any sort of facial hair, I have to shave twice a day. I can grow a full beard in a week. It's ridiculous.
I wanted to make Jess proud by boasting a thick mustache, so I decided not to shave for nine days with the goal of taking everything off, save for the stache, prior to the party. I'd like to chronicle the adventures I had with my beard leading up to this event.
Friday, May 4:
I decided to get Jess a birthday present. I asked her if she had finished Feast for Crows (the fourth book in the Game of Thrones series). She told me no, but not to get her A Dance with Dragons (the next one) because she'd rather read it on Kindle. She then texted me, "I don't want anything," only instead of "anything," she typed "Anthony."
I drove over to Neshaminy Mall. I found nothing at Barnes & Noble. I then walked by Spencer's Gifts, and I suddenly came up with a great idea. I asked the girl who worked there if they sold blow-up dolls. There was one male version of one, and it happened to be a midget. I decided that I would buy this for Jess - and that I would name him Anthony.
I went to Tango later that evening, as I normally do on Fridays. I had thick stubble at this point, but some interesting things occurred there:
First of all, I discovered that one of the male bartenders reads Jerks of the Week. He told my friends that he enjoys this feature of my Web site, but doesn't know whether to like me or hate me because I make fun of all of his customers.
I talked to the bartender about this. He said some pretty surprising things. For example, Drunken Santa Claus, referred to in the previous link, is a legitimate genius. He tests jets for a living. I've already had reservations about flying post-9/11; now, I don't think I'm ever taking a trip in the air. I won't be able to shake the vision of my pilot asking snot-nosed brats what they want for Christmas while flying the plane. What if the plane is struck by lightning and is going down, and the pilot can't do anything about it because some whining 6-year-old girl wants a unicorn?
This bartender also told my friends that he's going to tell Hot Blond Bartender about Jerks of the Week. So, she might be reading about this right now. I tried to tell this to my friends, but because I was drunk and slurring my words, I managed to combine "Blond Bartender" into "Blondtender."
The second interesting thing is that Tango will be closing. Again. Apparently, they're changing owners for the 800th time in the past five years, and the old owners didn't bother renewing the liquor license.
I'm not the only person who is pissed off about this. Paul Raymond, who runs MySportsRumors.com and also happens to frequent Tango, sent me an e-mail the following Friday:
I can only imagine how Drunken Santa feels about this. Though I guess it's for the best - there will be fewer jets that crash in the next two weeks.
Saturday, May 5:
I didn't do anything crazy on Cinco de Mayo because I had an early party the following day. I did go out to dinner at a pizzeria with some friends Saturday evening. One of them, Larry, asked if I picked any winners for the Kentucky Derby.
Me: I have picks on my site, yeah.
Larry: Who do you have?
Me: I don't know. I don't even know who's racing. Is Smarty Jones still in it?
Larry: You don't know? How do you have picks and not know whom you're taking?
Me: Some handicapping site provides them. In exchange, I link to them.
Larry: But you didn't read what they wrote?
Larry: But they could have written anything. What if they wrote something sleazy?
Me: Meh. My editor will take care of it.
I suppose I should have read it because they could have written something like, "We like little boys, teeheehee!" I was too hung over though.
As it turns out, they nailed the exacta. I discovered this when someone congratulated me on Facebook. I didn't know it at the time though; we watched the race at the pizzeria. Well, my friends were watching. I was busy checking out the super-hot brunette waitress with the nice butt.
See, if the horse-racing handicappers would have written, "We like staring at hot chicks with nice a**es, teeheehee!" that would have been accurate. I suppose I don't have to read what they send over after all.
Sunday, May 6:
I mentioned that I had an early party. My friend Adrienne's brother Will was turning 18, so I was invited to that. If Will sounds familiar to you, I drunkenly tried to convince him to drink and drive at another party that I hosted back in June. And no, if you're wondering, Will never worked for my dad.
Anyway, you can vaguely see that I'm slightly scruffy in this picture of me sandwiched between Adrienne and Jess:
Yes, I'm drunk. No, Jess is not naked. And no, I did not get Will to drink and drive at this party. I was pretty well behaved, save for two instances:
First, one of Will's cousins (maybe 10 years old) approached me when I was trying to watch the final minutes of the Sixers-Bulls Game 4.
Kid: Hey, can I go downstairs and play the piano?
Me: Sure, go ahead, kid.
I don't know why he would ask my permission to do anything because it wasn't my house, but he looked at me quizzically and then walked toward the basement. Jess yelled at me shortly afterward, telling me that he couldn't go to the basement unsupervised because he was autistic. He also apparently wanted me to play the piano with him. Sorry, but I am not a Syracuse assistant basketball coach. Not that anyone at Penn State would ever do a thing like that.
Second, another one of Will's cousins, this one being an 8-year-old, was observing us playing beer pong. He saw me drinking some sort of concoction.
Kid: Hey, what are you drinking?
Me: Red Mountain Dew and vodka. You should pour yourself a glass.
I was kidding, but this drew a couple of angry looks from some people who heard me. Only a couple though; us eastern Europeans believe that drinking should commence before the age of 10. I must remind you that my cousin Lev was forced to drink vodka when he was 6 years old, and now he's a partner at some software company. Clearly, there should be no drinking age. Educating your kids about this type of stuff is the way to go; otherwise, they'll learn from some losers in the woods somewhere.
Monday, May 7:
I had a meeting with my bank on this day because I'm re-financing my mortgage. I misplaced my personal tax returns, however, so I had to go to my accountant's office.
My accountant's assistant is used to seeing me as clean-shaven or only slightly scruffy, so upon observing my facial hair, she asked if anything was wrong. I told her that I had a mustache party on Friday. She then shook her head and quickly handed me my returns. She knows me well, so I don't think she was surprised.
Tuesday, May 8:
I had a legitimate beard by Tuesday. Two things of note happened:
Hot Chick: I love beards. I will rape you right now if you say yes.
Me: I... blah.... mroo...
Hot Chick: No? Oh, that's too bad.
OK, none of that happened. She didn't even ask, "Hey, how are you?" She looked at me with a disgusted expression on her face.
I later went to Saladworks. There was a female worker I had never seen there before. I ordered a Buffalo Blu salad, but she put the minimal amount of chicken and blue cheese on it. When I asked for more, she obliged, but looked perplexed - almost as if she was thinking, "This guy looks homeless, yet he wants more stuff on his salad? I thought he'd be content with just lettuce."
Wednesday, May 9:
If I didn't look like a homeless bum on Tuesday, I definitely did on Wednesday. I was also completely unappealing to women, as I discovered when I went out to dinner.
I always eat Saladworks and Wawa, so I thought it was time for a change. There are tons of international restaurants near my development, so I figured, new facial hair, new cultural cuisine. Why not?
I decided on Arby's. I've always seen Arby's restaurants everywhere, but I've never actually walked into one. I enjoyed the country western motif they have in there. It made me happy that I was expanding my horizons.
The chick working the register was probably a 5.5 or maybe a six out of 10. I told her I wanted two beef-and-cheddar sandwiches, large curly fries and mozzarella sticks. The total came out to $12-something, so I gave her a $20, expecting $7 and change back. Instead, she handed me two $1 bills and change. I was pretty confused about this.
Me: Hey, I think you're supposed to give me a $5.
Cashier: What? How do you figure?
Me: I gave you a $20. Twenty minus 12-something is 7-something. You gave me 2-something.
Cashier: You gave me a $20? I thought you gave me a $10?
Me: What? How does that make any sense? Why would you give me money back then if the bill was $20?
Cashier: Oh, OK. Here's $5.
What the hell was that about? Was she trying to cheat me out of money intentionally because she thought I was a bum who couldn't count? She tried to explain herself.
Cashier: Sorry, it's been a long day.
Me: Really? How long?
She walked away in disgust. Either she was depressed that I figured out that she was trying to cheat me, or she was appalled that a homeless man was hitting on her. Not that I would want to. I mean, sure, I'd let her take advantage of me, but why would I hit on her?
Thursday, May 10:
My beard, as you may suspect, was even longer on Thursday. I looked even more homeless. People must have thought that my big cardboard box was downgraded to a medium-sized cardboard box.
I went to the gym again. It was very weird swimming with a long beard because it felt like bugs were crawling on my face. There was also a new girl working the front desk. She was cute, but had a giant tattoo covering one of her arms. This completely ruined her for me; I hate tattoos, as I described in my St. Patrick's Day entry.
Anyway, I attempted to strike a conversation with the Girl with the Arm Tattoo. She looked like she wanted to call security to let them know that a bum/terrorist infiltrated the building. I don't even like chicks with tattoos, yet I couldn't get her to stop grimacing at me. This was getting bad. Luckily, I could shave all my facial hair, save for the mustache, the following day...
Friday, May 11:
The day of the party had finally arrived. I went to the gym first though. My friend, Hot Lifeguard, didn't even recognize me.
Hot Lifeguard: Excuse me, sir. You have to be a member to swim here. I'm not sure where you can find a soup kitchen though.
Me: Hot Lifeguard, it's me, Walt!
Hot Lifeguard: What the hell happened to y... hey, Walt!
After another mile of having bugs crawling over my face, I went home. Jess, Adrienne, my cousin Polina and our friend Marlana arrived shortly afterward. They were thoroughly impressed by how thick my beard was, but Jess wanted to see me with just a mustache. So, I shaved everything but that off.
There were mixed reactions. Some complimented me, saying that I looked like Littlefinger, Alex Trebek or a porn star. A girl, however, said that I reminded her of a rapist. No, you are supposed to be raping me, not the other way around, woman!
Anyway, I gave Anthony to Jess, and she loved it, claiming that it was the best birthday present she's ever received (take that, other people!) The party itself was fun. Four things of note:
1. Tim Tebow showed up. No joke. Well, a slight joke. One of the guests was a guy who looked exactly like Tebow. The person who invited him talked about how people always go, "OMG it's Tim Tebow!" whenever he's out somewhere. I spoke to him for a few minutes...
Me: I can't believe I just lost at beer pong.
Tim Tebow: I'd like to thank Jesus Christ for giving me this opportunity to be here at this party tonight.
Tim Tebow: This shirt is made by Jockey. Jockey - the true original!
This got boring very quickly.
2. I got super drunk at this party. Two things give it away if I'm super inebriated. One is that I start hugging everyone, both girls and guys (not that there's anything wrong with that.) Two is that I dance. Whenever I hit a shot in beer pong, I would do the Victor Cruz salsa dance. When I hit a game-winner, I Tebowed. I glanced over at Tebow to see if he enjoyed my Tebowing, but he looked like he was praying, and I didn't want to interrupt.
3. Other people were super drunk too. Three of the girls decided that it would be a good idea to sit on one of my kitchen chairs. It broke. I was pretty devastated, to be honest. I bought my kitchen table because of the chairs. I found them at a shady, back-alley furniture store, where the guy refused to sell me the chairs unless I bought the table. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that one of them broke, but still. If I don't get a replacement chair - or at least told where I can buy one - I will be very angry.
4. We played Kings toward the end of the night, and it was pretty fun, aside from people continuously spilling Woodchuck cider all over my wooden floor.
Some of the rules were nuts. By the end of the game, when someone drank, they had to slap this dude's butt, then slap my behind, and then motorboat the person to the left. Unfortunately, I never got to motorboat anyone, and even worse, no drunken girl wandered off into my bed.
I think I'm going to force Jess to make sure this happens the next time she has a party at my house.