I can only assume that you guys are sick of hearing about me being down and feeling sorry for myself. Most of you have known me for long enough that you're sitting there going, "f-ing J-Man. Hot chicks flock to you for some reason. You'll be going out on dates with girls I'd give my left nut for within a week." (thanks E). He's still bitter that I never brought the "porn star" around...but that's a different story.
Anywho, I hope he's right. But in any case, I should be bringing you the stories you want to hear. The stories of random stupidity, the stories of me exchanging terrible banter while at a bar, the stories of me watching internet porn with bikini models in my bed (yeah, I wish too). So here's a quick little excerpt from last Saturday to get me in the mood for some more shenanigans down at Rocket Bar tonight. Like it or not...I'm back out there...hide your daughters (seriously, hide the ugly ones).
So, last Saturday, I head over to my buddy's place and there's four of us there, hanging out, doing some pre-drinking, and watching this really gay Japanese pro wrestling shit on youtube (trust me, you don't want to find it...it's funny for like a minute, then it's just uncomfortable). After a couple drinks, we head for the metro with roadie in hand (gotta get hella drunk right after a breakup...standard practice). We head out to Bethesda and after making a quick stop at Blackfinn and taking a double Patron shot (told you), we decide to head to Union Jacks. I had been there the night before and whipped out some of my old school dance moves with Laurie, but tonight it was just four dudes.
Well, we just watched the gayest Japanese wrestling ever, why not go that extra mile and have four dudes hit the dance floor. Did I forget to mention that we did a jagerbomb shot and had a couple drinks first? Yes, jagerbomb. Protein MILK! Fucking Skanks! (If you got that, props to you). Anywho, I'm breakin it down like I always do...a combination of Will Smith and Will He Stop stupid spins and shoulder bouncing. There's not enough room for the extra stupid running man or Roger Rabbit or I would have likely done them too.
Needless to say, women are actually coming up and dancing with me, and while I can't remember most of them or even talking to any of them, there is one that sticks out...a relatively hot brunette with some cleavage showing and a fat friend (always notice the fat friend...gotta watch out when I get drunk like this). In any case, I'm pretty sure she said I dance pretty good for a white guy and I think she was grinding on me for a bit. First rule of a dance floor, or anywhere for that matter: when a white girl ends her sentence with "for a white guy," she's probably been with a brutha (or more) and seeing as I'm not bringing it like Sean Michaels, I think I'll avoid attempting to disprove the age old myth. :o)
In any case, I turn the dry humping to moderate dance floor conversation and this is when I get these added tidbits flashing into my drunken brain...
"oh, you have a kid?"
"and the eldest is 12!!" (how old is this chick???!!!)
"oh, you're 32" (drunken math says baby at 20)
At this point, I'm thinking I need to truly do the running man. But I've got to see the end of this train wreck...so, I ask the hard hitting questions:
Me: So, where are these kids if you're here?
Her: blah blah blah (I can't remember what she said, but it wasn't with their dad)
Me: If they're there, where's their dad?
Her: Wow, these ARE hard hitting questions! (I think I forgot to mention that I actually said that I was about to ask the hard hitting questions...I'm all class)
Her: He's in jail.
Me (in my head): I already knew the answer.
J-Man think he the mack...macaroni!