The Trials And Tribulations Of Being A Wing Man

March 15th, 2013

Well. You know what happened to me.

As a wing woman, I mean. The time I was sacrificing all sorts of personal boundaries for the approval from the friendship gods. But what about the men? The wing men, I mean? Is it the same? Are they also heroically chucking themselves under the theoretical friendship bus?

Don’t look at me.

I don’t know.

But this guy might:

wingman

So I decided to find out. Did a little research. With my man friends. Again.  And what started as a vent session of my ludicrous night out ended in a full-blown confessional of their wing man ways. So I wrote them down. And now? I’m going to share that shit with you. In the form of a blog post.  And then I’m going to keep saying more obvious things.  Like. This is a sentence. And you’re reading it.

So.

Here it is. Verification for the ladies that they aren’t the only gender subjected to such heroic obstacles. And reassurance for the men that their bromeos really are the fucking shit. And that they owe them one. Big time…literally.

Alex, Brandon, Bentley Cooper and Olive Present:

The Trials and Tribulations of Being A Wing Man

“We’re going out. You need to get laid”

I knew this phrase. And I knew it well. Been a well-practiced, top-notch wing man for every horny, lonely and normal bro near and far. And let me tell you. This shit isn’t easy. And doesn’t always yield the most man-friendly results. The story goes like this:

“We’re going out. You need to get laid” Jay yelled up the stairs

Translation:

“Come out with me, I want to get laid”

My answer was an immediate fuck yes.

Truth be told I didn’t give many shits if Jay got laid that night. (Not yet anyway) And truth be told again it had been a damn while for the both of us. We were two, young single friends with passable good looks living a shameless life of 6 hours sleeping and 18 trying to get laid. You’re not better than us.

The night started polar opposite of any movie. No pool of hott women. No sick Escalade to emerge from.

None of these.

None of these.

.

None of those.

None of those.

Just Jay and I, reppin bargain button downs in the far corner of the bar, ripping shots of confidence and imagining a flawless night of half-dressed women at our constant disposal.

“Its going to be so easy man.”

Shot.

I’m feeling good.

Shot.

The fuck kind of a pick up line do I use on these bitches?

Shot.

Starting to lose my vision.

Shot.

Beer goggles on.

Shot.

Haha hey dude remember that one time you chugged that thing from that other thing?

Shot.

Suddenly the bar has  twice a many ‘hot’ girls.

Chug two more drinks.

Logical decisions = Out the fucking window.

Jay and I stood there with questionable eye sight and loneliness in our pants. Hmm…where to start.

1. Duo of girls talking about emotional shit at the back-end of the bar? NOPE.

2. Chicks dressed in cardigans sipping a Stella Artois who are entirely too sober and probably wearing a chastity belt of morals under their leggings? NOPE.

3. Gaggle of girls going ape shit on the dance floor swinging their hair right round, grinding up on their friends and immediately demanding respect afterwards? YUP.

Alright man. We’re going for it. Jay and I moseyed over to the hot and sticky dance floor, trolling the  god forsaking force field that always seems to linger around the pasture of batshit women . Don’t want to be the creepy fuck that takes them from behind. But. Also don’t want to be the rhythmless, off beat monster on the sidelines making sporadic eye contact that they do not enjoy.

Why I ever decided to come here is beyond me. I hate these kind of places. The music is too loud, the drinks are too pricey, the force field is fucking ginormous, the entire place is just…WHOA!

“Did you see that chick?!?!” Jay said.

Which one, man?

That one.

There she was.

Wearing a skirt that was beautifully short, dancing moves that were beer goggle impressive and stumbling just enough to give us a goddamn chance. Jay was on the prowl. We were inebriated, well-prepared and well-practiced for the conversation that went like this:

“Hey, whats up?”

“what?”

“Hey, WHATS UP?”

“WHAT?”

Uncomfortable eye contact                        Uncomfortable eye contact

They walk

We walk away

Good times.

.
Attempt 2:

.
“Hey my name’s Jay, what’s your name? Can I get you a drink?”

.
She said she’ll have what he’s having.

.

Nice.

.

He asks for her name.

.
She says Sammy

.
Sammy’s hot.

.

And where there’s one hot girl…there’s got to be a hot fri-

.
“And this is my friend Cristi.”

.

Nope.

At this point I’m about 6 drinks deep into the night and about 11 drinks away from considering said troll even “moderately attractive.” A true 1 on the 1 to 2 scale. The kind of girl that if you were playing a manly game of pictionary you’d by instinct free sketch a troll, bear, pig, or 3 legged hyena, and everyone would answer “CRISTI!” in a correct and immediate fashion.  Basically. Bitch was beat.  Dually, she emitted an odor that can only be described as a mix between rancid milk and ranch dressing.

And then he said it.

The words I hoped so badly he wouldn’t say.

But knew he would anyway.

“Dude, you gotta wingman for me”

Sonofabitch.

“WADDUP I’M CRISTI”

.
“Hi Cristi”

.
Conversation started out relatively painless but immediately turned into pure pain when she took an unfortunate misstep with her high heels – straight to the motherfucking foot. She then went on a rant about her ex bf woes which swiftly ended in me patting her back fat and consoling her on her recent separation anxiety from her prized canine “Bowser”… and all the while I kept desperately hoping that her tight…tight shirt would magically just become less…tight…

.

Suddenly I hear Jay yell “YEAH WE SHOULD ALL GO TO THE DANCE FLOOR”

.
NOOOOOOOOO.

.

We break through                                               the dance floor force field.

She grabs my resisting hands and puts it on her blended waist, thigh and stomach. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. Sweaty hair in my face. Terrible songs by Usher. Actively preventing her from turning around for the face to face grind. I’m pretty damn certain my sex drive has never been quite this

low.

.

3 minute later.

Too long in a close vicinity with sweaty mammal hybrid.

3 LMFAO songs later

May pass out from the fumes

2 Ke$ha remixes later

This feels like a fucked up discovery channel special of saving the whales. Except I don’t want to save this whale. But this whale really wants to be saved. But I’m like “Nah trick nah. The ocean is a happier place without you.”

.
Suddenly I’m saved.

.
“I GOTTA PEE BRB.”  Cristi screams and runs off

.
Cristi out – Katie in.

Katie.

The 2nd friend of hot Sammy and man-pig Cristi. Where was she this whole damn time? Don’t give a fuck. She’s here now. Sent straight from the sympathy gods at the precise stroke of a bad Adele remix. She’s wearing a low-cut shirt with a theoretical sign that says “You’re welcome, fool.”

I start gyrating in a panic. Attempting to impress Katie with my off beat ways. Luckily she was a few whiskey gingers deep , liked what she saw and began <<<< moving my way.

Suddenly

 Cristi grabs me from behind, turns me 90

degrees, shoves me against the wall and kicks >>>> Katie to the sidelines

WHO PEES THAT FAST.

“This is it, this is how I’m going to die”, I thought to myself when I was pinned to the wall by what can only be described as an unholy hybrid of devil and female bison. I tried release myself from her death grip. No luck. None at all. I then spent a substantial amount of time brainstorming  how I could repulse her in such a way, that my penis would be the last thing she would want near her untoned ass. I came up with the following:

1. I’ve got a severe case of AIDS

2. My penis is borderline microscopic

3. I actively practice bestiality

4. I’m a direct relative of well renowned mass murderer Charles Manson

5. I like men. Lots and lots of men.

6. Every time a woman tries to hook up with me I throw hot sauce in her face

.

.

.

As it turns out, Cristi is a big fan of both aids and hot sauce. What…are….the chances.

I glance over at Jay and Sammy

Dance floor sex.

“Barkeep! 3 more shots please”

I offer a shot to Katie. I successfully lost Cristi in the bar scene jungle and prepared to enhance my tequila induced mindset.

When suddenly.

“WHERE DID YOU GUYS GO I WAS LIKE DANCING ON THE DANCE FLOOR AND I TURNED AROUND AND YOU WERE GONE.”

…Cristi.

She drank a shot. She drank all 3 of them. She’s an asshole.

1

2

3

minutes later Jay gives me the “I’ve got this, let’s get outta here” nod quickly followed by the announcement that we’re “ALL GOING BACK TO OUR APARTMENT LADIES!”

He’s also an asshole.

Our head count was now at 5.

This meant.

2 cabs.

As fate would have it, Jay, Sammy and Katie popped into the first vehicle leaving me and troll  alone…again.

.

I spend a lengthy portion of the ride reiterating my aids and hot sauce flaws. She gives no fucks and rather requests the cabbie  “PLAY THAT SONG MILKSHAKE BECAUSE…I think this boy right here wants to get in MY yard. HAHAHAHAHA”

Currently hate life. Currently hating it a lot.

The cabbie even tries to wingman me with aggressive sharp turns and immediate stops prompting troll to smash her head against a window and go flailing from       seat      to       seat.

Bitch is immortal.

And hungry.

“CAN WE GET PIZZA. I LIKE REALLY WANT PIZZA.”

I contemplate stopping by the local Rite Aid to purchase a tranquilizer of sorts. But before I could solidify the game plan, troll had abounded from the cab and was already drooling outside the local eatery.

I ordered 2 slices of pizza. One for my soul and one for her face. But once slice didn’t suffice. Not for her anyway.

“ANNDDD ONE LARGE FAYGO (what the shit, they still sell that?)

CURLY FRIES (of course) WITH CHEEEEESE (make it stop. make it goddamn stop.)

AND 2 TACOS!!! (The fuck kind of variety does this restaurant sell??)

I watch her eat this feast like a game of hungry hungry hippos…except the other 3 of the hippos are broken.

We finally get back to the apartment. Cheese stains fucking everywhere.

Sammy and Jay are already in the bedroom fucking up a storm.

And then I saw her.

On the couch.

Katie was on the couch.

Maybe there is a god.

I try to entertain Katie while keeping the troll at bay with a mixing bowl of cheez its.

I even offer Katie a spot in my bed since it’s late, we can…

Troll pulls >>>>>me away

she asks me what drunk food delivers around here/ WHAT’S YOUR ADDRESS

She’s still hungry and hot wings sound pretty fucking divine.

In the meantime Katie shoots a phone call to her current bootycall. She muffles a few words and hangs up the phone. She then tells me that maybe she will take me up on my offer to sleep in my bed tonight…I think I hit the jackpot while the troll passes out on the only couch in the apartment.

Bootycall arrives not long after.

He’s tall. Better looking. Better dressed. They make out immediately.

She escorts him to my bedroom.

That happened. That…just happened.

Suddenly Sammy emerges from Jay’s cave. She storms to the bathroom. My phone goes off. It’s from Jay. It says this:

wingman text

I attempt to decode this texting riddle but was distracted by the overwhelming snores deriving from the couch bison.

I sleep on the floor with no blanket and wake up the next morning ready to pound a Gatorade and escort troll face, Katie and bootycall away. Far…far away.

Jay stumbled out of his room.>>>

>>>>Sammy stumbled out shortly after.

I give him a fatherly nod of approval and walk out of the apartment with my coat over the shoulder and off into the sunrise.

I see a girl sprinting down the street in a pea coat. She looks frantic. I ignore it.

Because this dignified walk and that head nod of approval made the bison, dance floor rape, and drunken food massacre all worthwhile. Wing man of the year? You better fucking believe it.

.

.

.

.

Like this post? Tell me here!

Advertisements

10 responses

  1. Pingback: The People | olivethepeople

  2. Pingback: 18 Pick Up Lines That May Or May Not Work | olivethepeople

  3. Pingback: 20 Reasons Graduating Doesn’t Blow | olivethepeople

  4. Pingback: Everyone’s Off Getting Married And I’m Over Here… | olivethepeople

  5. Pingback: Ben Folds, Spiderman, And A Telegram | olivethepeople

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s