That Stupid Fucking Place with the A**hole Bouncer
As thrilling as the driving for faux google maps sounds, it undoubtedly gets lonely. That loneliness is then heightened when you’re working with three young guys who fail to understand the idea of including someone out of pure politeness. Fortunately, a dear friend of mine recently moved to the Bay area and agreed to drive east to the land of bad tattoos and meth, for a night of immorality and booze.
When my friend, Shady, showed up, I was roughly 4 warm Tecate’s deep and had exchanged numbers with numerous pool goers. Prior to her arrival, myself and the teams token frat boys had walked to market to pick up beer in hopes of getting rowdy early in the game. Which, by the way, was a great success.
As Shady strolled in, cracked watermelon in tow, my demeanor immediately went from chill and stable to “Beyonce” in a matter of seconds. This queen walked in slayin’ in a strappy banana bikini and pink sunnies that would make your daddy leave his mistress.
After her arrival, the memories of that night take on a dark haze of confusion. I do distinctly remember sipping on Hennessey and Red Bull, though. I wonder if the 13 others I shared that bottle with in that hot tub remember things as poorly as I do?
In the name of all things good, I cannot for the life of me remember getting ready for the night, but somehow I left with successfully shaving my legs and applying a killer contour. At nightfall, we roamed the streets of downtown desperately seeking entertainment away from the young bucks we were drinking with earlier in the day. This led us to a bar I had been at the night before, The Speak Easy, which would later be known as “That Stupid Fucking Place with the A**hole Bouncer.” Before I get to that, let me explain the walk to The Speak Easy.
We walked. We slayed. The end.
As we began to hand the bouncer our I.D.’s he said “can’t take that in.” What I forgot to mention is that prior to our departure from the hotel, I brought silver tequila from the bar, poured it in a clear plastic cup, and earnestly believed I could pass it off as water.
I then replied with a very stupid “whattttt? My water? Come on…” Booboo the bouncer was not feeling my pouty, red lipstick, sorority vibes and told me to finish it away from the bar. After a teeny tiny protest, my much more sober counterpart gently pulled me away and told me to “finish the damn thing!” As we stood around the corner, completely out of sight, we quickly finished my “water” and chatted up another bouncer that was partaking in some dank herb. Feeling comfortable and confident after our run in with Smokey the bandit, we went back to Booboo with I.D.’s extended in hand. As we were walking up he said, “have a good night ladies…” “Huh?” Again, he said, “have a good night ladies…” and pointed us in the opposite direction of the front door.
We didn’t even get the chance to stop in front of him. Feeling defeated and pathetic, because our slay game had failed us tremendously, we slowly and miserably made our way to the bar the guys were at.
With our tails between our legs we explained what had happened and to no surprise, we received zero response from the self-absorbed frat boys.
Moral of the story, you are not, nor will you ever be, Beyonce, tequila does hinder your slay game, and you are better than “That Stupid Fucking Place with the A**hole Bouncer.”