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Posts Tagged ‘drinking’

Who needs the respect and admiration of your coworkers when you can clumsily grope the boss’ wife, thrown up in the office ficus, photocopy and subsequently send out copies of your junk to the company’s biggest clients, and pass out on the couch in the break room?

Tis the season to be drunk and tacky.

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It was a magical night back on Nana and Pop-pop’s 50th wedding anniversary.  The sights, the sounds, the ambiance.  It was a night to remember for more than one reason.

The evening started off a little slow as he had to make the rounds catching up with all the seldom seen relatives.  His cousin Jeff just got into law school.  Meghan, his third cousin twice removed, just had her second kid.  Uncle Mort recovered from his broken hip just in time to make it.  Thank goodness for the open bar or he would have thrown himself under Grandpa Pete’s motorized wheelchair just to get away from it all.

That was until he saw her from across the room.  It wasn’t so much that when their eyes met it was like two star-crossed lovers passing in the night.  No, when their eyes met, he could tell.  He could tell that it was on and was going to be a good night.  He’s seen the look she gave him before.  It’s the look that he has often given the ladies.  There’s no getting around it, she just eye-fucked the shit out of him.

Three drinks, two dances, and about a minute of small talk later, they were in the coat room going at it like a couple of teens in the back of a prom night limo after splitting a fifth of Peach Schnapps.  It was one of those sloppy make-outs where you just want to go up to them and say slow down turbo (that is, if you could actually stomach walking in on them).  Seven minutes in heaven later, they composed themselves and walked out to rejoin the festivities.

After a little over the clothes groping, he thought it would only be polite to ask her name.  Jennifer.  Feeling obligated, he followed up.  So Jennifer, where are you from?  Ohio.  Oh, I’ve got some relatives there.  Where in Ohio are you from?  Columbus.  What a coincidence, that’s where my Aunt Lois is from.  That’s weird; my mom’s name is Lois.  Huh.  By any chance, is your uncle’s name Stewart?  Yeah, about that… things just got a whole mess of awkward.

After this genetic disaster wrapped in a familial fiasco topped with a sprinkling of shame, we’re pretty sure you can take their names off the guest list for next summer’s family reunion in Palm Springs.

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Nice cowboy hat and belt buckle.  What’s up Marlboro Man?  You get that hat from the farm?  No.  Oh, I see, it was a gift from your niece who picked it up from the swag table at the Hannah Montana / Miley Cyrus concert last week.  And that belt with the oversized, almost novelty, belt buckle – did you win it at the rodeo or from the turkey shoot at the county fair?  It was an impulse buy from near the register at Abercrombie & Fitch.  At 36, aren’t you a little old to be shopping there?  But we digress.

That’s great that you order table service and the most expensive bottle in the place, but didn’t you look around and realize this is a dive bar?  That 22 oz. Budweiser Select big beer was a good choice for someone with such discerning taste and a refined palate.  Oh, this is a fine dining establishment and martini bar.  You look like a tool ordering the $350 drink made with Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac, Dom Pérignon champagne, a dash of orange liquor, and garnished with a sapphire in the bottom of the glass to impress the already drunk bar fly cougar he has been hitting on all night.  ‘Nuff said.

Yep, he’s an all around classy dude.  Needless to say, keep on trying.

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You and your friends decided to switch it up a little and not go to your regular hangout.  Instead, someone suggested going out to the local bar with a DJ and dance floor.  Sounds good everyone thinks; however, little did they know those were famous last words.  You arrive, get a lay of the place, and head over to the bar for the first round of drinks.  After the third round, the women in your group are swaying to the beat and singing along to the chorus of the music playing.  As anyone knows when you’re out with girls in a club, those are two of the universal signs that it’s time to move out to the dance floor before someone tries to get up and dance on the table or a chair.  Preemptively cutting off a scene with a bouncer or having someone crumpled up in a ball on the floor with a twisted ankle, everyone picks up their drinks and heads to a nice looking spot on the dance floor.  You’re feeling the song and have just enough liquid courage to be coordinated and look pretty good out there.  Things are going well and everyone is having a great time until you notice him dancing alone behind one of the girls in the group.  He didn’t come with you, no one seems to know him, and no one invited him over to dance with you guys.  So the question on everyone’s mind is who exactly is he?  In case you haven’t figured it out – spoiler alert – he’s the creepy old guy at the club.

We’ve all encountered him on a night out with friends.  Similar to the guy who pops into other people’s photographs, he’s the guy who creeps around in the shadows of the club only to emerge at opportune times when he can slither onto the floor and dance with unsuspecting ladies.  Materializing on 80s Night or other events that cater to women such as “Ladies Night” or half-priced martini drink specials, he always appears to be the one club goer who is out of place.  Wearing a Member’s Only windbreaker, “mom jeans”, and sensible sneakers, he hangs out on the sidelines until he locks on to an unsuspecting target.  Doing what can only be described as an awkward shuffle and head bob, he slowly moves towards circles of friends, and especially women, on the dance floor.  Careful not to draw attention to himself, he doesn’t directly ask anyone to dance.  He tries to remain inconspicuous while dancing behind and alongside women preoccupied with their friends and having a good time.  But if he is ever caught or levied nasty glances by the group, he sheepishly dance-shuffles back to the shadows to stalk his next target.

You almost feel sorry for him – the key word being almost.  Hey, he’s got a pretty good life.  He’s got his own efficiency apartment with a futon, a sweet black light, a terrarium with a pet snake, and his own mini-fridge well stocked with Hot Pockets.  He drives a 1987 Toyota Corolla in near average condition.  He’s got a good job as a telemarketer for a male-enhancement supplement company.  And he’s got the entire box set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer for his viewing pleasure.  This tiny dancer is certainly living the high life so please don’t pity him and his club behavior.

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it's in the holeWhether it’s the first tee at the Masters or the seventh hole at Adventure Landing Miniature Golf at the Jersey Shore, “That Guy” will be there.  It could be a tee shot on a 650 yard hole or a two foot tap in putt, “That Guy” will be there.  It could be the world’s toughest tournament – “Held in Socorro, New Mexico, the tournament consists of exactly one hole, and the target is a 50-foot circle… The tee to that hole is 2,550 feet up the side of a mountain, and nearly three miles from the green.” – “That Guy” will be there.  It may even be one of, if not the, world’s most difficult holes in golf – “The course’s so-called ‘Xtreme 19th’ hole is a par 3 – a par 3 whose tee is atop a cliff on Hanglip Mountain, more than 1,400 feet above a green carved like the continent of Africa.  You’ve got to take a helicopter to get to the tee box, and from there it’s more than 630 yards to the pin.  Once you tee off, it takes nearly 30 seconds for the ball to hit the ground.” – and “That Guy” will be there.

Regardless of the difficulty of the shot or the hole, “That Guy” will be the one on the golf course yelling “get in the hole!”  It doesn’t matter that there is no plausible way due to the laws of physics and thermodynamics that the ball could even conceivably go in the hole.  Most sources found say the chances of hitting a hole in one are approximately 3,000 to 1 for a Tour player, 5,000 to 1 for a “low handicapper,” and somewhere around 12,000 to 1 for an “average player.”  But when you’re “That Guy,” you can’t be bothered by minor details like physics and statistical analysis.

Then why does “That Guy” do it?  A rather simple explanation is that he just wants to be “That Guy” and hopefully hear himself on television.  Another more plausible explanation is that after putting on his best argyle socks, tight brightly colored slacks, polo shirt, and golf club manufacturer visor; sitting next to the green in the grandstands in the direct sun for eight hours without moving suffering from the onset of heatstroke; and drinking his fifteenth MGD (the official tournament sponsor), there’s not much “That Guy” can do but yell “Get in the hole!”

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