I took this advice to heart when my friends and I went to Vegas for the Superbowl and I actually noticed when some Van Wilder, Alpha-Kappa-Whatever-looking motherfucker glanced in my general direction. After about twenty minutes of intoxicated conversation I found out that he lived about an hour away from me in SoCal and that he was with a bunch of dudes. We wound up watching the game with said friends and I managed to get him to change his bet from the Pats to the Giants. HAHA! Sad Tom Brady FTW! Also, score one for my bank account.
I hung out with Van Wilder (shortened to "VW," or simply, "The Bug") and his boys for a couple of days, and by "hanging out" I mean, um, stuff hung out. Of our clothes. There was a lot of tequila, yo. And a taxi, if I remember correctly. A taxi in which we did things. And after these things I got dropped off at my hotel, and invited him up to my room, and I don't think he got the gist of what I was implying, because The Bug went back to his room alone and I wound up back in mine. With more tequila.
Later I was informed that the cab driver had called him a "fucking idiot." I mean, The Bug was ridiculously hammered (which I soon learned is pretty much his natural state), but when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you up to her hotel room, you fucking do it. Hell, when a girl is practically doing a striptease in your lap and invites you to discuss the Higgs boson with her, you fucking do it. You can admit that you don't know what that is later, when you're manhandling her boobs like you're controlling the Enterprise.
|Actually, a lot of men have gone here before.|
And not that boldly, either.
In my defense, I never actually expected this to go anywhere past the slot machines. When was the last time anyone ever said, "I met my husband/wife/future deductible in Vegas?"
Oh. Except for those times that people get wasted in chapels and shit.
Anyway, about a week after we were both settled in our respective living spaces, The Bug actually texted me. He and his friends, who were cool as shit BTW, were going to the Laker game about twenty minutes from me that weekend, and if I was free, were down to hang out. Yeah. I bet. They also wanted to stay over, since the drive back was really far, but hey, I was feeling generous. And tequila-y.
So basically, we all got pretty smashed again, and uh, yeah. Shit happens. They left the next day, and I figured that was that, but we actually corresponded pretty steadily. Yeah. "Corresponded." I also hung with his friends a lot, too. Like I said, cool as shit.
So this went on for a few weeks until one night when I got a call from him. He was already an hour late and when I picked up the phone he was in jail. JAIL. He had been biking to my place, too drunk to drive, and gotten a BUI. Classy. There were some muffled sounds and then he hung up, and I spent the next few days trying to get in touch with him. I even got sent to voice mail.
Oh, fuck no. FUCK NO. Delete.
I immediately called everyone I've ever met since I was ten years old to bitch to them, and spent the rest of the night on my lesbian neighbor's couch watching shitty re-runs of American Idol.
Also, did I mention that this assclown is 25 years old? Throughout this entire hilarious (?) chronicle, the Nipclique kept sending me emails that looked like this:
About a week passed of me completely losing my shit, and then I got a text from his friend. He informed me that a few days ago, The Bug had had a family emergency (he sent me photographic evidence, lest I thought this was a classic case of dudes sucking each other's dicks to cover for each other), and that eventually, I will get a phone call and to hang tight. I'm not supposed to know anything though, so "keep this on the DL."
So, armed with this new information, I waited. For about a month. His friends were still awesome, so we kept hitting up bars and such. I also received periodic information on this clown- such as, "he really likes you, but he's dealing with a bunch of bullshit right now." Meaning, "he's a pussy and he's too scared to call you." Then, one evening I was home, probably watching the SyFy Channel or some crap, and I got a text. From his friend. Saying that The Bug is now "feeling better and 'down to fuck.'"
People like this actually exist. Like, in reality. I could not make this up if I tried. I responded that that was eloquent as fuck, and I would be right over. Then I called like, eight of my friends.
I'm aware that I should have cut this entire group out of my life by now. Just go with the story.
Another week passed, and his group was in town for a birthday party. The Bug, of course, did not accompany them. However, I did get an apology from the guy who Cyrano'd that romantic proposition from before, claiming that The Bug, is, in fact, an idiot. FYI, girls: when the members of a guy's own crew use the word "idiot" to describe him, that is WAY MORE than a red flag- you have now hit Defcon 1.
I received a request- through a third party, of course- for a meet-up that weekend. Supposedly The Bug would be coming back from the airport and wanted to discuss how badly he had fucked up. He didn't even plan on staying over (right), and he said that even if I hated him, he would settle for "being friends."
So of course, being the stunning, dynamic intellectual that I am, I SAID YES, and you can probably all guess how that turned out.
This is getting super long and possibly very annoying, so I'll divide this into Parts 1 and 2. If it's seriously that suspenseful, I guess you can read the next half of this thrilling saga when I post it in a couple of days. Or whenever I stop being lazy and finish writing it.
SPOILER: I'm currently still single.