I went out with my sister Timi last night, and since I hadn’t seen her in a few months and she’s dying in bumfuck West Virginia, we started the night with shots at Max’s Taphouse with my bartenders Tim and Mikey.
I was designated driver (because fuck Uber, except for Malik) so while I was sipping a pink Sex on the Beach, I got a wild hare up my ass and decided we should go someplace else. “We should go party with those Loyola kids…” I drove through the city, taking very drunken directions from Timi, and we arrived at the campus. Yeah, it was pretty fuckin’ dead for a Friday night. “They don’t party here; they go to this shitty place called ‘Murphy’s’. Let’s go there.” To Murphy’s we went… and man did that place blow the big one. I can handle dive bars. I like ’em. This was a dive bar with rich kids. Salmon pink shorts. Polo shirts. Boat shoes. The trifecta. And let’s not leave out Abercrombie w/Bitch. Some chick got up in my face when I danced with a normal-lookin’ fella… Oops. Whatever. Nothing a shot can’t fix, right?
And holy shit, the dancing. Everyone seemed to be just jumping up and down with their hands in the air to The Killers’s “Mr. Brightside,” complete with screechy sing-alongs. There was a group of dudes shaking their hands at the floor. It looked like they were rebuking the devil or something. Childish Gambino’s “Sweatpants” was playing in my head. Rich kid asshole paint me as a villain.
We left Murphy’s after a grand twenty minutes and a few new phone numbers in my mobile device. There was another bar down the street that we walked to. I handed them my driver’s license; the guy told me it wasn’t me. I had dressed nicely and applied
war paint make up. I guess it was quite a transformation. “Here’s my military ID. Everything matches, and that’s a helluva lotta work to put in just for a fake.” The other bouncer looked at my ID.
“You’re not military; you’re just a dependent.” He pulled out a common access card and held it in front of my nose.
“Are you in the reserves? That’s not active military.” I guess he thought I wouldn’t know the difference (I grew up in a military household and worked at the hospital on base).
“No. I just work for the department of defense.” Fucking contractor.
I wasn’t having any of it. I took my cards back and pushed passed the bouncers. “Tootles. I need a drink. I’m fucking 25 years old. Kiss my ass, if it please you, massah.” I should’ve stayed outside. This bar sucked just as much as the other one; there were just more people dancing like epileptics sloshing Coors and Natural Light all over the floor. We watched that debacle for maybe thirty seconds and walked back out. “We’s free slaves now, massah,” I shouted at the bouncer. Timi and I stood at the crosswalk to a huge intersection.
“This is the road that divides Baltimore from Towson.”
“I’ve heard those Towson kids know how to throw down. Wanna go?”
“Jeshicca…” She wiped some spittle from her mouth. “When have I ever said ‘no’ to that?”
I half carried that betch to where I had parked, took a ten minute power nap in the Shaggin’ Wagon, started up the engine, flipped a U-ey, and drove back to the Intersection of Party Times. We passed a group of Loyola dudes. Timi rolled down her window and looked at me with droopy eyes. “If the light is red, run it anyway. LOYOLA SUCKS BUT I’D STILL FUCK A FEW OF YOU WHITE BOYS”!
The light was green, but I still squealed the tires of my fuck bus.
Towson didn’t disappoint. There was an ass ton of fine folks. We went to some bar called The Rec Room where I got my ass stomped in cornhole (I got better with alcohol though). After the bars closed a big ass fire truck showed up and four firefighters hopped out. They had stopped for hot dogs; I had a sudden hankering for wieners (LOLOLOLOL). I got mine with ketchup and mustard.
The drive back was peaceful once we got out of Towson, Timi mumbling her directions (she’s the best drunk navigator). We traversed through the ghetto at 0300 on empty roads. I drove in reverse because I’d probably never be able to do it again
bragging rights. We stopped at a diner for an incredibly early breakfast, got four hours of sleep, and spent the day doing girly things.
Also, piña coladas are hereforth known as “penis colossus.”