The Toothpick Fail

An accidental tradition has started springing up around this time every year: getting all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura's on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.

If you recall, I wrote a little post about Ladies' Night two years ago. While there were no stripper interactions this time, the premise was still the same - Laura was in town, which equates to "get your ass back into college-mode because you're about to act like a lunatic all night." For those of you that don't know Laura, please go "friend" my ass on Facebook (or better yet, just go "friend" her ass, or just her, whatever...) so you can watch her in action. And by "in action," I mean, watch her fail miserably as she tries to untangle herself from the briars that latched onto her and how all of her friends stand by to watch and laugh instead of actually help. We love you. :)

So as I was saying, Laura was in town. Which means I have a lot to live up to here. I took her strip club virginity a few years ago, so obviously I have to continue to offer wild entertainment. It's kinda like trying to continue to impress the man that you've been on a few dates with - you don't want him to ever think you're boring. Laura is totally *that* date, for me.

We began our evening at Bucca's - Husband, Billy, Laura, and I sat in our favorite corner booth and ordered a shit ton of wings and shoved them in our faces in between chugging our beers. By 7:00 I had a buzz. Win. Of course one of the first topics at hand was "where is the night going to take us?" The obvious answer: Strip club. So, we decide that we should prepare. At this point, the probability of ending up there was pretty much 100%. (Don't you judge us.)

We didn't want to have to use the strip club ATM because they charge you like a $13 ATM fee, or some kind of bullshit, and of course the ATM only spits out twenties, so you have to then go to the bar to get singles, but instead of singles they give you $2 bills, which means you are essentially paying double for each time you go to the stage and that's just ridiculous and we weren't going to stand for that crap. And then when you have left-over $2 bills and you have to use them somewhere normal in society, people totally look at you with their "judging eyes" and assume that either (a) you are a stripper or (b) you were entertained by one. SO. Our preparation technique? Go to Bi-Lo, buy one ridiculous item and get a shit ton of cash back in one-dollar bills. It's not even 8:00 PM when we bust in Bi-Lo like a bunch of heathens on a mission. I opted to purchase a trashy magazine. The cashier gave me an attitude and was like "are you seriously only buying a magazine?!" I was like "Ummm yesssss. I need cash back. Duh." I was too embarrassed to get more than 10 ones, so I got 10 ones, 2 fives, and a twenty. Laura also opted for the trashy magazine route, but incorporated a pack of gum as well. Smarty pants.

So, after our Bi-Lo excursion, we went to Wild Wing where Amanda and Rachel met up with us. Yay, friends. The chemistry was apparently right because we all got super goofy and hilarious at this point. There was no real rhyme or reason to any of our antics. Basically a really good analogy for us is one of those cartoon tornadoes with arms & legs all flying out of the sides. You have no idea where the shit storm is going to go, you just know it's going to be an entertaining ride.

So remember how I was telling you about how Laura got stuck in the briars? Well that happened a few weeks ago when my old college crew got together for a football game (or really just an excuse to sit outside all day and pound cheap beer and pretend to still be in college. Whatever, I like to relive my glory days, as often as possible. I'm not sorry.) Well, at this particular tailgate, my brudder Michael was there. And let me tell you people, brudder is funny. As shit. Seriously. For whatever reason, his particular "saying" of the day was "jeet.da.beet.dur.dah....heee heee." Think Michael Jackson, people. You know, the beatbox-ish noises followed by the squeals? Yep, that's it. Brudder was all about it. He gets on these tangents and keeps a little phrase for a month or so and then moves on to the next hilarious compilation of words to play out. Well, obviously jeet.da.beet.dur.dah caught on. A lot. Like, Laura & I said it 200 times that day. And we may or may not have drove everyone crazy in the process. It was wildly entertaining for us... so much so that we continued our jeet.da.beet.dur.dah-ing during her Charleston visit. On a Tuesday. In a Wild Wing. at 9:00 PM with very few people in the place. And we may or may not have screamed this at the top of our lungs. And Laura may or may not have shoved her foot up in the air above her head while sitting in the booth while screaming jeet.da.beet.dur.dah.

(I totally should have written a blog like a good blogger would have about the Clemson Reunion weekend because then this blog would probably be even funnier, but I didn't because I suck and I'm sorry.)

Somehow then the conversation turned to Lady Gaga. Laura was pretty much obsessed with her new song, "Bad Romance," so she was pretty much singing it all night. But as Laura said she was "faking sucking" while singing it. Yeah, that's what she said. Totally. See, Laura actually can sing really REALLY well, but to not look like a total weirdo snob, she tends to refrain from seriously serenading us on a regular basis, so instead she opts to "fake suck" her singing abilities... which actually can make for a pretty hysterical rendition of Lady Gaga. What is it with us and singers who just grunt? "Jeet.da.beet.dur.dah." was soon replaced with "Rah ra ROMA maa." A very throaty, growly, Sharkira-esque "Rah ra ROMA maa," mind you.

And then the conversation turned disgusting... as in, I'm having a hard time actually typing this because it's so offensive. Basically, we all nodded in agreement that butt holes look like balloon knots. Little black balloon knots. Ugh. Gross. Now I have to take a shower. Moving on. Quickly.

And then, the most glorious thing happened. Laura was building her usual cryptic toothpick message... let me give you some background: this one time, we were at another Wild Wing, and our server was really bad, and she never checked on us or brought us any drinks and I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that that week our particular phrase of choice was "BIIIRTTTTHHHHDAAAAYYY" and so we got real mad. And Laura decided to take action to let her know just how mad we were. So mad that she left a little message for our server made out of toothpicks. That may or may not have spelled "fuck our server." (You can read about that shit show here.) Ahh, another tradition: toothpick messages. So, on this Wild Wing evening, it only seemed fitting for Laura to make more little messages for us. She was kinda in her own little world, dumping toothpicks all over the table, snapping them in half and arranging them ever so delicately on the dirty Wild Wing table, when suddenly, we really wanted to hear Laura beatbox. She's surprisingly good at this, I'll have you know. So we were all like "Hey Laura? Beatbox! Now!" And without hesitation, she took a deep breath, formed her mouth in the perfect beatbox preparation pucker, and let out a giant "ppppfftt tahhh pah teeee."

And then, the funniest thing in the world happened and none of us saw it coming...

Laura apparently collected a ton of air with that giant breath she took pre-beatbox. So uh, what comes in must go out?? And yeah, when she went to let out the perfect beginning to the perfect beatbox, all of that sucked-in air came wooshing out. With tremendous beatbox force.

Right on top of her toothpick masterpiece.

It was a fucking toothpick tornado. The most perfectly-time, unsuspecting fucking toothpick tornado ever to be seen.

I'm fairly certain I've never laughed that hard. Especially at something I didn't expect. All I wanted was to hear Laura whip out some sweet beatbox beats, maybe even Lady Gaga beatbox beats, but instead, I was selected to be on of the chosen few to ever be so lucky to witness the best accidental toothpick tornado in history.

Laura gathered herself and quickly resumed toothpick construction. Her masterpiece again showcased the general consensus of the events of the evening. Her masterpiece was artfully crafted to display the most perfect description ever:

Toothpick Fail.

And that's the time we got all shitfaced on a Tuesday when Laura was on Thanksgiving Break from school and therefore back in Charleston with nothing to do but get shitfaced on a Tuesday.

The Confused Bar

Here in Charleston, we apparently like to do things differently. Especially when it comes to our bar scene - or at least the naming of our bars in the bar scene.

A year or so ago, an old cafeteria-type restaurant was gutted and turned into this skeezy place called Rendezvous. For weeks, I was uncertain if it was a strip club, casino, or bar. There's no windows and the lettering on the sign is all red and pink and sexy. Apparently it's just a bar. I still beg to differ as I have never set foot inside.

Another restaurant closed down and a bar decided to take over it as well. The once Sticky Fingers in North Charleston has now turned into Market Street Saloon. The kicker? Market Street is downtown. And there is actually a saloon on the downtown street. However, the Market Street Saloon that is in skanky North Charleston, is NOT on Market Street. Tell me how in the hell you can name a Bar "So and So Street" and not actually require that it be located on So and So Street?! False advertising, much?

So whatever. After my stint of random illnesses over the past two weeks (thus explaining my hiatus, as well), I was more than ready to get out of the house, off the couch, and out of my fat pants. I mean, I love my fat pants, but I seriously needed to change clothes... at least for one night.

Our neighbors, Angel & Richard wanted to play and suggested we go to Market Street Saloon not on Market Street (MSSNOMS) (You like how it says "noms" at the end, don't you?)

So we went.

And let me tell you! That place is a SHIT SHOW. MSSNOMS = SS. Yes.

Because the bar is fairly new, the clientele hasn't exactly been established, and therefore it's every sumbitch for himself, apparently. There were the under-agers, the punks, the cowboys, the sorostitutes, the Navy boys, the skinheads... and us. Where we fit? I'm not quite sure. I am sure that I could have spent the entire evening without uttering a word and just watching the chaos around me. And the music selection? Oh dear baby Jesus. The DJ would go from "Shotz" by LMFAO to "Photograph" by Nickelback, to freaking country music. How does that make sense?! And where did he get his DJ degree? Sheesh. It jarred my brain every time a new song came on. At least he played "Single ladies" by Beyonce and I was able to do my rendition of her dance moves from the video. I know you're sad you missed that shit.

At one point, somewhat early in the evening, I noticed some dumb girl at the bar griping a couple of rags in one hand with her other hand strategically wiping the corner of her foul mouth. Bitch puked. All over the bar.

Bad enough right?

Wrong.

Bitch then proceeded to FIST BUMP everyone in sight for her aforementioned puke show.

We saw her later climbing onto the bar to dance. I anxiously awaited her plummet back to the puke-soaked concrete floor, however I was not granted this sight, as she managed to not fall somehow.

It gets better... later she was stumbling around, all zombie-like with googley eyes, with a tiny shot glass in her hand that she was sipping on like it was wine. Whichever group of men she would bump into she would stare at sideways and put up her fists like she wanted to fight them. Before she could vomit or perform a strip tease, her pretty, much-more-sober friend would come get her and guide her by the shoulders through the next group of victims to attempt to spare her dumbass any more embarrassment.

The saddest part about all of this? We all pretty much looked at each other in unanimous agreement - this little shit show of a drunk girl basically could have passed as my ex-best friend. And I used to be the tall pretty friend trying to save her from herself...

So on this Thanksgiving, I am most thankful for not having a shit show hooker trashcan of a friend that I have to babysit in the bar anymore. I am also thankful for the MSSNOMS for allowing me to witness the audacity that is MSSNOMS.

I'll count this as a win. Ah-thank you.

Possibly the Best Purchase Ever


I hate all of those info-mercials that are so horrifically ridiculous. They're train wrecks. You know you should turn away. You know you'd be better off without seeing the damage up close. You know it's really none of your business and you should just keep driving instead of rubber necking and slowing down the whole damn interstate.

But you don't. You don't do any of those things. You watch! All of those crap info-mercials suck you in. You even say to yourself or your husband or your fat cats, "This is ridiculous! Who would ever buy this? I am pissed off that this info-mercial is wasting my time!"

And then it grows on you. You keep seeing the stupid thing on TV. And you start to make fun of it. You start saying things like "I should totally buy that shit for Joe because it's that ridiculous and I know that he would pee his pants if he got it in the mail."

And then you find out that your favorite cousin has one. Because someone thought that Jen was Joe and totally sent her that shit in the mail. As a joke.

And then one day it happens. For no damn good reason. You secretly want one.

You want a SNUGGIE.

And you tell your husband that they have Snuggies at Bi-Lo. And you joke and say "Haha, they have Snuggies at Bi-Lo. On the side near the beer. And haha, maybe we should buy one one day. And oh yeah they come in zebra-print now."

See?!







And then one day your husband parks the truck at Bi-Lo on the side near the beer. And gives you a loving look and says "did you notice what side I parked on?"

And you squeal, "Snuuuuggieeeeee!"

And run in. And find the zebra-print one right up front. And violently throw it in your cart and smile at it like you won. You just WON a Snuggie!

And repeat the word "Snuuuuggieeeeee" for the rest of your Bi-Lo trip.

And then you take it home, wrap yourself in it all day, and do not move.

.....

And that, my friends, is how I may or may not have exactly ended up with a Snuggie. A zebra-print effing Snuggie.