I’ve never considered myself to have an abundance of that magical thing called “game.” True, on more than one occasion I’ve charmed myself into favorable circumstances. When I was younger and running wild with my boys Chris and E., it seemed like we were pulling off some sort of “How to Be a Player”-like craziness just about every other week. And even in the much more recent past, I’d like to think that I’ve handled myself somewhat admirably in close encounters of the pimping kind. Nevertheless, I often view my “game” as being hit-or-miss; given the right moment, the right chemistry, the right atmosphere, and the right mood, I’ll either charm a girl’s pants off or push her towards a lifetime of chastity.
This past weekend, I realized another factor in the equation: booze. That’s not to say that I suddenly have game when I’m drunk; it also doesn’t mean drinking guarantees that I’ll be a blathering idiot (9 out of 10 times isn’t a guarantee). In fact, it doesn’t even have to be my own drinking that derails me.
Friday night, Pakistanimal, our friend Chappy, and I went to Carson City Saloon. CCS was celebrating their second anniversary with drink specials, including one on Jager Bombs (try not to get ahead of me here). Ten minutes after we walked through the door, we were doing our first round of J-Bombs. A half hour later we were doing our second. Before long, we were doing our third. Then came a round of something mixed with Gatorade (Pakistanimal’s doing, not mine). Then more J-Bombs. Then Washington Apples. Then…? I lost count very quickly, because after the third round, just about every shot that we drank was coming from Pakistanimal, who was passing them out like a street team handing out fliers. Luckily, none of them were hard shots (like straight Jack, straight Crown, straight Jager, etc.), or I probably would have gone blind. Thankfully, Pakistanimal took a break for an hour or so while he and I ran a beer pong table in the basement (5-0, we retired to the jeers of guys who wanted to dethrone the champs, and the swoons of beautiful women held breathless by our pong mastery—okay, I may be exaggerating there).
We returned to the upstairs action with a guy we had met in the basement. He was a cool cat who had cracked jokes with us, and he offered to buy us shots. Shots, you say? Never heard of them. You have intrigued me, sir, and I shall try one.
Here’s where the fun starts. Cool Cat was out with two good looking girls. One was his cousin, and the other was her best friend. Cool informed me on the low that I was clear to holla at either of them, but forewarned that he had a bit of history with the friend. And it appeared he had a future with her, too, because after his round of shots she was hanging off him like Jesus piece. I began to work my mojo with his cousin, who seemed receptive. But I was quickly called away by Pakistanimal, who was back at the bar handing off cups. More Gatorade shots, more Jager Bombs. Handing them out two-rounds-at-a-time, he had become a human double-barreled shot-gun.
[Let it sink in…there you go. Yes, I punned. And I apologize.]
While I was working on Cool’s cousin, Pakistanimal had found two girls near the bar, and began talking them up. He wasn’t looking to bed them, though; he has had a great (and patient) girlfriend for a couple of years now, and therefore his pimping has transitioned from “getting them naked” to “proving that they would get naked, if I let them.” Typical of men and women in committed relationships, when he flirts, he’s only looking to get his ego stroked.
I took up the conversation with them as he departed for the bathroom. Five minutes later, a female friend of Chappy’s came upstairs to alert me that Pakistanimal was getting kicked out for throwing up on the steps. So long ladies, my wingman just shot me out of the sky. On the way out I saw Chappy, who had entertained himself with his friend from the time that Pakistanimal and I first began playing beer pong. I nodded at him, expecting him to be on the way out the door with us; he gave a drunken half-shrug, and took a sip of beer. I guess he saw my game going down in a ball of flames, and decided that wasn’t going to be his fate, too.
The next night found me back in Buckhead Saloon, for the first time since my now legendary (among my friends, at least) birthday performance two and a half months ago. Pakistanimal was having a birthday party of his own, and all week I had remained reluctant to attend. But on Saturday afternoon we were talking on the phone, and he said, “Now I understand why you didn’t want to go to Buckhead. It’s going to be a llooonnnggg time before I go back to Carson City.”
Expecting to be met by harsh stares when I walked in, I was instead hit by sweltering heat. The club’s air conditioning had malfunctioned, and they were now relying on 6 or 7 ceiling fans to cool a space the size of a football field, which was filled with people, some of whom were moving around at a rapid rate (I’m no Usher, but I hesitate to call much of what was going on “dancing”). And the temperature, when mixed with an increased level of alcohol in my bloodstream, caused this spectacular display:
“Well, I’ve got to go catch up with my friends.”
Picking up the pieces of my face from the floor, I walked back over to Pakistanimal and company.
“YO, she was HOT! What’s up?”
“I’ve got nothing for her.”