I rarely get to see my best friend, Josh. We grew up as neighbors, and we met when we were both 5 years old. We played freeze tag on his cul-de-sac the first time we ever hung out. Josh cheated, and I called him "selfish," even though I barely knew what the word meant.
He's been living downtown for nearly a decade, and because I absolutely hate downtown and he's a lazy S.O.B., we never get to chill anymore. The last time we hung out was Nov. 30. I remember the exact date because the beautiful Awesome Girl Who Loves Football and I celebrated our 11-month talking anniversary* by going out to eat at Red Robin**.
*- Yes, we have a "talking anniversary" because I consider it to be one of the most important days of my life. She sent me a sober e-mail and then a drunken e-mail. I responded, and we talked nonstop since then. And we celebrated 11 months instead of a year because she was going to be home for Winter Break at that point, so it would have been impossible to see her because her dad hates me and would like nothing more than to gun me down and bury me in the desert.
**- And yes, Red Robin. Don't call me cheap. First of all, Red Robin is freaking awesome. Second, Red Robin is her favorite restaurant. Third, I paid for dinner. Fourth, I tipped the waiter more than 20 percent. And fifth, I bought her a fancy-shmancy necklace. So like I said, don't call me cheap!
Anyway, Josh called me out of the blue in the second week of May. After complaining about this job he interviewed for - hopefully I'll get him to write about it because it's an amusing story - he suggested that we should hang out sometime soon. I told him to come to the suburbs the following weekend.
Josh: We can go to Kenny's.
Me: Kenny's? Oh, that's near my bank. Is that bar any good?
Josh: I heard that place is awesome. People come to the suburbs specifically for that bar.
Josh agreed to come up the following Friday - one day prior to the May 18 wedding (read about it by clicking the link). I texted my other friends to see if they wanted to come out as well. Injured Reserve accepted the invitation and asked if I wanted to drink and play a board game prior to going to the bar. That sounded like fun, so I told everyone to come over around 6:30.
As you may guess, I had a ton to write about that night. Let's begin with the pre-drinking festivities.
1. Good Samaritan Mailer:
It was a nice day outside - sunny and about 75. I had time to kill before people came to my house, so I walked to the mailbox. Two interesting things happened during my trek down the block.
First, I passed by a hot MILF - a brunette wearing a red tank top. She wouldn't turn around because she was playing catch with her 5-year-old son, so when I walked by her, I glanced over to check her out. She saw me doing this and gave me a dirty look.
I don't see what I did wrong there. If women wear tank tops, they should expect all males to check out what kind of cleavage they have. I'm pretty sure that rule is written in the Constitution or the Declaration of Independence somewhere. Women, if you don't want random dudes checking you out, don't show off your boobies. That's just common sense.
Second, I found two letters on the ground near the mailboxes. Being the awesome guy that I am, I decided to deliver the mail to the correct houses.
The first letter belonged to someone right down the street. As I approached the house, I spotted one of the Indian kids who sold me frozen cookie dough that I still haven't used yet. My heart sank as I realized this particular piece of mail belonged to one of his parents. Here I was, trying to be the nice guy, when the good deed I was doing was for the family that conned me into purchasing cookie dough instead of cookies.
Me: You live here?
Cookie Thief: Yeah.
Me: Here, this is yours!
I threw the letter in the Cookie Thief's face. If you think I'm a dick for doing that, then screw you. You have no idea how it is to be a fat man conned out of cookies.
I continued around the corner to deliver the second letter. I knocked on the door, and about half a minute later, this 14-year-old girl answered.
"Hey, I think this is yours," I said, handing her the envelope. She looked at it quizzically. Then, she turned around and closed the door in my face.
She didn't thank me or even look at me, so what the hell was that all about? I was doing her family a favor by giving her a lost piece of mail, yet she didn't even acknowledge me. Unbelievable.
Thinking about it now, in the span of 10 minutes, I got an evil scowl from a MILF, I confronted a kid who conned me, and I was ignored by an ungrateful 14-year-old b***h. It's like I'm sort of pariah in this neighborhood. Maybe all of my neighbors read Jerks of the Week and decided in their super-secret town meeting that they should treat me like a jerk. < br>
Meh. As long as the MILF wears her tank tops, I don't really care.
Injured Reserve, the Reverend, Man-Eaters, my cousin Polina and her husband Chris came over around 6:30. Knowing there were going to be six people pregaming - Josh wasn't coming until later and said he didn't want to eat - I figured that ordering three large pizzas was going to be enough. After all, Barney Stinson's legendary pizza formula, according to one of his books, is 3X/8, rounded up, where X is the number of people you have at your gathering/party. There were six people at my house, so I ordered three large pies, given that the formula spit out 2.25.
It wasn't enough. I had just four slices, and I was starving for more when we ran out. As a fat man who craved pizza all day, this pissed me off greatly.
We finished our drinking and board-game playing just before 10, so it was time to hit the bar. There was a difference of opinion as to which bar we'd go to. Josh still wanted to drive to Kenny's, while the Reverend stated that Sweeney's was his choice. Sweeney's is within walking distance from my house, but it's a crappy dive bar with loud music and a ridiculous $5 cover charge. They have pool there though, so Injured Reserve was leaning in that direction.
Injured Reserve: Do you think Kenny's has pool?
Me: I don't know. I don't see why not.
Josh: I just want to go where there's people.
Josh did come up from downtown, and seeing people sounded promising, so we decided to go there. As we pulled into the parking lot, Man-Eaters made a keen observation: "There's no one here." She was right. There were maybe 15 cars there.
We walked inside, and it was even worse than we imagined. There were a couple of people sitting at the bar. The tables were empty. No one was on the dance floor. And there was no pool table to be found.
"I think the only people here are the workers," Josh laughed.
I thought about suggesting Sweeney's, but we sat down and ordered some drinks. It turned out to be an awesome time because we had some great conversations. For example, my friend Wild Ginger is off in Prague for a whole year. Josh asked if she was there, and I told him she was, and that she'd be back in July.
Josh: I wish I could go to Prague.
Me: Not me. I wouldn't want to go to a third-world country.
Josh vehemently argued me, but I insisted that Prague is indeed a third-world country. I feel like I won the debate when I said, "It's definitely a third-world country because many people die each year swimming across the Atlantic Ocean just to get here."
Boom. Lawyered. And I'm not even a lawyer. I didn't even stay at a Holiday Inn Express. It's just common sense. How many people have died swimming across the Atlantic Ocean trying to get from America to the country of Prague? Zero, of course. I rest my case.
Anyway, it appeared like it was just going to be us and a couple of shady dudes in the corner, but these two unbelievably hot chicks walked into the bar. One was a blonde who was wearing a short dress. The other was a tall brunette.
The two girls were just sitting by themselves for about 15 minutes. I chugged whatever I had remaining in my glass and ordered another beer from the busty blonde bartender when out of nowhere, two creepy-looking guys approached the girls. One was sickly and skinny with pimples all over his head. The other had red hair that was parted strangely.
I laughed, dismissing their chances of scoring with those girls, but they each hugged each other and hung out the entire night. As they sat down with each other after embracing, Josh looked at me and said, "Wow, those are the ugliest dudes I've ever seen. How'd they score those girls?"
I still don't have an answer for this, but I'm not exactly jealous of them. When some song came on, the blonde shouted, "Wooooo it's my song!" and sprinted to the dance floor with her friend.
That completely turned me off. As I've written many times, I loathe dancing, and I'm not into girls who love to dance. I just don't see how it's fun. You move your feet and your arms, and so what? What's there to gain out of it? And why would anyone put themselves through the torture of doing physics and geometry to determine where to place your hands and feet? Why not just sit back, drink and talk? That's what I consider a good time. And what's up with the "it's my song" deal? What does that even mean? I like songs, but that doesn't mean I have to dance to them.
Speaking of songs, all of us were completely confused as to why Kenny's had a DJ. There was absolutely no one on the dance floor the entire night except when the two hot chicks heard their multiple songs.
Maybe Kenny's should stop paying a DJ for no reason and focus some of their money on advertising. That would definitely help bring in some more customers. And once that happens, Josh can finally see people when he comes to visit me.
3. Reycling Day:
I wasn't the only person who was pissed that the aforementioned Barney Stinson pizza rule didn't work. I had people over Sunday night for Game of Thrones, and my friend Body Burner noticed that there were pizza boxes on my kitchen table.
"Ooooh, pizza!" he exclaimed, moving quickly toward the table. He opened all three boxes to find that they were empty.
"Walt, why do you have pizza boxes on your table if you don't have any pizza in them?" he asked angrily. I told him that recycling day was on Wednesday, so I didn't have anywhere to put them in the meantime.
Two days passed, and it was time to move the pizza boxes and my other recyclable items to the curb. I walked out of my house Tuesday evening and spotted three Russian people heading toward my house. One was a dude with a red t-shirt walking a small dog. The second was a chubby redhead. The third, and most interesting, was a hot brunette wearing a dark tank top.
I said hi to them as I placed the pizza boxes and recycling bin on the curb. I reached down to pet the dog. Since I got to them to stop, I wanted to say something cool to impress the hot brunette. Here's what I came up with:
"I think he smells my parents' dogs."
The hot brunette chuckled, bu then walked away with her two friends. Damn. If she can't fall for something that suave, she won't be impressed by anything, right? Well, I thought about it, and there could have been two reasons why she didn't instantly want to have sex with me:
1. Being a Russian, she probably thought I was a dumb American for ordering pizza. She would have gone with horse tongue platters instead.
2. Like everyone else in my neighborhood, she's aware of my Jerks of the Week articles, so she doesn't want anything to do with me.
Meh. As long as she continues to wear tank tops, I don't really care.