5.09.2004
he puts the "ass" into "no class"
i went to rosarito this past saturday with my friend, "i," her fiance, and at-the-last-minute, her fiance's meathead friend, "t":
on the way to pick him up:
i: don't worry. we're not trying to set you up on a double date.
within thirty minutes, the machismo, the testosterone and the overpowering fumes from the t-bone steak in his head started to permeate the car's interior.
t: you know, in mexico, there are a lot of hotties. (he was really philosophical, you see). over here, girls wear jeans and maybe a t-shirt when they go out to the clubs; over there, they get dressed up like they're going to a party or something. (yeah, or "something.")
on the topic of bad drivers, foolio flaps his lips too loosely to share with everyone in the car how ignorant he was. (he was lucky that i didn't rip him a new ass hole right then--who's got the testosterone, now?).
t: you wanna talk about bad drivers, he should go to westminster (pron. "west-mini-ster" as in body-of-christ server)
me: why? are there a lot of really asshole drivers there? (come on! was i really trying to engage in conversation here? up until now, i thought neanderthals no longer walked the earth, but i was WRONG.)
t: no. they have the largest population of vietnamese in the country.
i was going to kill him. i should've come back with, "but, i'm vietnamese muthafucka!" instead, in order to chilly willy cool maintain since we hadn't even gotten to mexico yet, i weakly retorted:
me: now, that's a stereotype! (enter my keen sense of observation here.)
t: i'm serious, though. i got hit twice over there. (yeah, because the vietnamese are skilled sharpshooters. they know how to aim straight and exterminate the idiot vermin running around the OC.)
when we get to rosarito, we decide to eat seafood at this tourist spot. little did i know that the evening was going to progress like some sorry night with an overgrown frat boy.
i order a margarita; every one else orders a beer. after a trip to the restroom with "i," we return to the table to find TWO rounds of drinks ordered by mr. cro-magnon.
in response to an earlier conversation we all had in the car about drinking and how i rarely get drunk, mr. t tells me how he's a man of ambition:
t: i took that as a challenge. i'm gonna get you drunk!
wow, i thought to myself. i knew where this was leading. he was one of those guys who's used to thinking that he can get what he thinks are stupid one-dimensional girls drunk, so that he can maybe make out and get a chance.
"fat chance, frat boy," i thought.
throughout the dinner, foolio tries to impress me by hiring a mariachi band to play $160 worth of songs. he tells me:
t: this is all for you!
meanwhile, i quietly laugh to myself as i watch ms. ardipithecus ramidus kadabba purchase and down a bucket of six more beers that he tries to force onto "i" and her fiance.
"keep it comin', greek geek."
after three margaritas and a beer, i return from the bathroom to find a whiskey sour at my seat. he leans over:
t: now, doesn't that deserve a kiss?
i just give a half-giggle, half-huff and turn away from him. he was gonna get it coming to him. if he keeps it up, i'll kiss him with my fist.
when we were walking back to the car, mr. philospher urges "i's" fiance:
"let's party, man! let's go to papas & beer!"
i had to check myself to confirm that i wasn't spending the evening with some dumbfuck from "enter three greek letters" fraternity.
instead, as we get into the car, he changes his mind:
t: forget it, dude. let's just cross the border.
within five minutes, the primitive hominid passes out. before this turn of luck happens, though, he leans toward me in the backseat with his arms around me.
me: helllll-o!!! what the hell are you doing?
t: i was gonna put your seatbelt on.
me: i got it, already!
i wish he were standing at that moment. i would've loved my foot to say "hello" to his groin. but i kept it cool... chilly willy cool. chilly willy cool maintained.
during the entire ride back to los angeles, mr. big drinker was fortunately comatose and i lived happily ever after.
the end
on the way to pick him up:
i: don't worry. we're not trying to set you up on a double date.
within thirty minutes, the machismo, the testosterone and the overpowering fumes from the t-bone steak in his head started to permeate the car's interior.
t: you know, in mexico, there are a lot of hotties. (he was really philosophical, you see). over here, girls wear jeans and maybe a t-shirt when they go out to the clubs; over there, they get dressed up like they're going to a party or something. (yeah, or "something.")
on the topic of bad drivers, foolio flaps his lips too loosely to share with everyone in the car how ignorant he was. (he was lucky that i didn't rip him a new ass hole right then--who's got the testosterone, now?).
t: you wanna talk about bad drivers, he should go to westminster (pron. "west-mini-ster" as in body-of-christ server)
me: why? are there a lot of really asshole drivers there? (come on! was i really trying to engage in conversation here? up until now, i thought neanderthals no longer walked the earth, but i was WRONG.)
t: no. they have the largest population of vietnamese in the country.
i was going to kill him. i should've come back with, "but, i'm vietnamese muthafucka!" instead, in order to chilly willy cool maintain since we hadn't even gotten to mexico yet, i weakly retorted:
me: now, that's a stereotype! (enter my keen sense of observation here.)
t: i'm serious, though. i got hit twice over there. (yeah, because the vietnamese are skilled sharpshooters. they know how to aim straight and exterminate the idiot vermin running around the OC.)
when we get to rosarito, we decide to eat seafood at this tourist spot. little did i know that the evening was going to progress like some sorry night with an overgrown frat boy.
i order a margarita; every one else orders a beer. after a trip to the restroom with "i," we return to the table to find TWO rounds of drinks ordered by mr. cro-magnon.
in response to an earlier conversation we all had in the car about drinking and how i rarely get drunk, mr. t tells me how he's a man of ambition:
t: i took that as a challenge. i'm gonna get you drunk!
wow, i thought to myself. i knew where this was leading. he was one of those guys who's used to thinking that he can get what he thinks are stupid one-dimensional girls drunk, so that he can maybe make out and get a chance.
"fat chance, frat boy," i thought.
throughout the dinner, foolio tries to impress me by hiring a mariachi band to play $160 worth of songs. he tells me:
t: this is all for you!
meanwhile, i quietly laugh to myself as i watch ms. ardipithecus ramidus kadabba purchase and down a bucket of six more beers that he tries to force onto "i" and her fiance.
"keep it comin', greek geek."
after three margaritas and a beer, i return from the bathroom to find a whiskey sour at my seat. he leans over:
t: now, doesn't that deserve a kiss?
i just give a half-giggle, half-huff and turn away from him. he was gonna get it coming to him. if he keeps it up, i'll kiss him with my fist.
when we were walking back to the car, mr. philospher urges "i's" fiance:
"let's party, man! let's go to papas & beer!"
i had to check myself to confirm that i wasn't spending the evening with some dumbfuck from "enter three greek letters" fraternity.
instead, as we get into the car, he changes his mind:
t: forget it, dude. let's just cross the border.
within five minutes, the primitive hominid passes out. before this turn of luck happens, though, he leans toward me in the backseat with his arms around me.
me: helllll-o!!! what the hell are you doing?
t: i was gonna put your seatbelt on.
me: i got it, already!
i wish he were standing at that moment. i would've loved my foot to say "hello" to his groin. but i kept it cool... chilly willy cool. chilly willy cool maintained.
during the entire ride back to los angeles, mr. big drinker was fortunately comatose and i lived happily ever after.
the end
