You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.
Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.
Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.
You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.
You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.
You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.
This is how I feel about last night’s game.
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
What about you? Have your kids drained the life out of you that you don’t have the energy to write anymore
You have no idea. He’s resorted to jerking off on the phone while we talk. He didn’t ask for permission but secretly I like it.
Do you happen to be a past victim who advocates for change?
You’re hungover as fuck from Friday night, but you decide to go out Saturday anyway. You go to a bar filled with hot sluts with tits, only to realize you forgot to wear pants and you’re wearing your my little pony boxers with a huge skid mark. You say fuck it and proceed to start drinking. You get fucked up entirely too quickly, get shot down by women all night, and eventually piss yourself waiting in the bathroom line.
Fast forward to 1:56, you’re out of options. You look down at the end of the bar, and there she is: 332lbs and ready to rumble. You stumble over, give her a slurred version of your best pickup line, and go for a motorboat, and she hits you like one of those Russian slap contest motherfuckers. You wake up outside the bar on the curb. She pulls up crammed into the drivers seat of her 1995 Honda civic del sol and tells you to get in. You’re about to be on the receiving end of a pity fuck intended to get her out of assault charges.
Like a caveman, she drags you into her dingy studio apartment next to 7-eleven on Aurora in the U-district. You tell her you need to puke first, and you proceed to splatter one of the nicest toilets you’ve ever seen. You comment on it, and she says her dad used to be the top toilet salesman at Home Depot. You strip down and the rest is sweaty, BO infested history.
You wake up the next morning with a splitting headache, appalled at what lies snoring next to you. You search around hoping to find a used condom, but there is none to be found. You lay there contemplating the life choices that led to you raw dogging a Sherman tank. You carefully extricate yourself from the bed, put on your stained my little pony boxers and sneak out of her apartment.
You get home, grab a fifth of whiskey out of the cabinet and plop down on the couch. You get a text from an unknown number letting you know she needs you to Venmo her money for Plan B. Oh, and she also has herpes. You send her the money, block her number, and sit on your couch trying to decide where the closest beach is so you can take a walk and get some perspective.
You got laid last night, but that’s literally the only remotely positive thing you can say about the evening.
This is how I feel about last night’s game.
This is the written word at its finest. Bravo.
Assuming @EsophagealFeces has had some sort of lived experience like this. I mean you can't have such technically gifted writing without, at least, having some IRL inspiration.
I’ve never experienced anything even remotely close to this. I just have a fucked up sense of humor and marginal writing skills. I was merely trying to come up with a worst case scenario evening that still resulted in getting laid. I was never the pick up chicks in a bar type. My little pony boxers, however…
I’ll give you some experiences if you marginally write about them, deal?
Shit sounds like a Thursday before I became a gay unfun married parent.
Comments
Means no.
Shit sounds like a Thursday before I became a gay unfun married parent.