First of all, I don't want to hear any shit about how my football season is now over and how the Jets are an epic fail. We got further than you did, Pats fans, and we knocked you out anyway, so fuck off.
I spent NFL Championship Day with Bad Monkey and a bunch of her co-workers, bar hopping for 10 hours straight and hosting our own Sad Celebration in Hermosa Beach. All of the rest of my friends were rooting for the Bears, so at least I wasn't totally alone on my ledge, in theory.
Bad Monkey is the only acceptable companion I've found in SoCal. She's the only female within a hundred mile radius that didn't drop off the planet because of a
Bad Monkey waitresses in Hermosa Beach, so I went to visit her at work and watch the Championship games. I had just dyed my hair the day before (oh yeah- I'm kind of a redhead now. You'll see it when I finally record my vlog, which I will do now that I bought a Flip), so I hadn't showered that morning. I was also coming off three hours of sleep, hadn't bothered with makeup and was wearing a football jersey. I had almost been vain enough to shave my legs, but since I would be wearing long pants, it was Winter Leg FTW. In short, I was a hot mess, minus the hot.
Almost immediately upon arrival I was assaulted by some Moronasaurus who thought that by agreeing to speak to him, I was already freezing my eggs in order to create a 50% perfect hatchling (half-perfect because hello- it's my kid, yo).
I couldn't transform into full-on bitch mode because this was, after all, my friend's place of business, so I tried subtlety. I attempted to squirm out of his grasp a few times, but he was too stupid to figure out that I wasn't feeling it. He kept trying to rub me and give me massages and shit, and then he (HELL, NO!) drank from my straw. I wanted to whittle the top into a point and stab him in the throat. I thought that tossing said straw into the trash might make him go away, but then the Bears scored a touchdown and he got extra handsy. He also told me, unsolicited, how tall he was, consummated with the declaration, "I'm a man." I just laughed and advised him that generally, "men" don't sip daintily from a straw.
When he tried to follow me into the line for the bathroom, that was finally it. I went into the back to find Bad Monkey and let her know that if this asshole tried to kiss my forehead again I would rip off his balls and fashion them into a stylish coin purse. In between fits of laughter, she and her manager accosted some regular customers to be my bodyguards. This was going well until one of them started rubbing my back and calling me "babe." Even when Bad Monkey clocked out and met up with me, all of my future alimony checks decided to invite themselves along. Come on, man, what the fuck? I just want to scream obscenities about my sorry-ass losing team without having to worry about a marriage proposal.
His hanger-ons were also pretty annoying- at one point Bad Monkey and I were engaged in an intensely aggressive air hockey battle and the two dillholes kept trying to throw me off by knocking on the window. You've probably figured out by now that the fastest way to piss me off is to break my concentration, especially during a competitive event, so if any of these guys had a glimmer of a shot of seeing me naked (they did not), they basically blew it in those two minutes.
Despite having to fend off aging frat boys, the rest of the night was pretty awesome. Bad Monkey's co-workers are all just like my friends back home, and I fit into their group within five minutes. It was one of those nights where you wake up with bruises on your arms, beer in your hair, dirt between your toes and NO recollection of how anything got there, but you know you want to repeat it next weekend. No one was threatened by the fact that I'm a walking Wikipedia page of football trivia, although that could have been due to the fact that the drinking had started around lunchtime. The only major party foul? I'd forgotten my camera. OF COURSE. The only genuinely amazing night I've had in LA thus far and I have absolutely no documentation. I fail at life.
Fortunately, I hang with Bad Monkey pretty frequently, so these characters will more than likely make a few repeat appearances. Despite the Jets' depressing loss and some uninvited grabbiness, I managed to make some killer new acquaintances and discover exactly how much alcohol 10 people could pack away in a day (hint: A LOT). And as for the AFC Championships, well there's always next year- to fuck up again.