Lebanese : A "Nice Guy" Failure

There's a story I need to write about. It's nothing too spectacular, but a good example of the phrase, "the best way to get over one guy is to get under another one."

    A few months ago, my friend Horatio decides to have a party at his house. He tells a handfull of people that his house will be empty on an upcoming Friday, leaving the bulk of the invites for the day-of. A number of things botch this contrived plan, namely a physics project that takes him and his group nearly 6 hours of work.

    The entire time the project is going on, I'm slowly wedging myself into conversation with this one girl, who we'll call "Lebanon" because she's mostly Lebanese. A break occurrs after about 2 or 3 hours of wasted time because this girl complains about being hungry. At Wendy's, I make a point to sit across from her, and we commence in playing the game, discussing eating habits as a start, which, in her case was inclusive of bitching about not having food and then proceeding to eat none of it. By the time we make our way back to Horatio's so they can "finish" the project, I've well established myself with this girl, now able to shoot the shit with ease.

    At around 8 or 9, they're still doing their project and people start showing up. The project basically falls apart and there's shit everywhere. It's one of those Rue-Goldberg things, so you've got random wooden blocks scattered on the kitchen floor, a giant robot standing guard on a stool with string hanging from the ceiling-fan. It was very intricate. And an all around failure. My contribution? I laughed at them when they failed to crush a can with a text book.

    The 3 or so dudes Horatio invited begin getting restless, so I head outside with a handle of Vodka. They flock to me like hobos around a trash-can-fire seeking warmth. Here I use a favorite drinking-trick of mine-- THE HUNTER SHOT--An unbridled chug-fest. Merely tilt the handle all the way back and chug. Having astonished these 3 pukes with my badass Irish heritage, I head back inside for some shots, and to potentially laugh at Horatio and his project partners for being failures. I refrain from the latter, but only because the former is taking precedence.

    My friend Yetti(he's the tallest and fittest of my friends, with 15-20 pounds on me) starts drinking with me and we somehow come to the conclusion that I'll keep 2 shots behind him, starting at zero and not counting my previous HUNTER SHOT and minor shots, so that I can keep pace with the weight differential. Basically science.

    I sit with Lebanon and Tara(another of the physics group), and tell them they should definitely stay and bring friends, because the party is clearly suffering a bad ratio. At this point: SEVEN guys, TWO girls. Conclusion: Sausagefest.

    Tara eventually weasles her way out of staying, promising me that she'll come back with friends, even if they're ugly, which, one knows only matters a little bit when drinking. We didn't see Tara again that night.

    I resume 'the game' with Lebanon outside on the deck, where we talk and watch Yetti shoot baskets. On six vodka shots, he's still making all of his basketball shots. He's loosened up enough to have no restraint when giving arm-crushing high-fives, though. He destroys my arm during a high five. My arm hurts, so I take a few shots to relieve my bone-shattering pain. Some kid is trying to climb up the shed out in the yard, but keeps falling on his ass. He earns the "Stupid Drunk of the Night" award. He also earns my hate, because I can't abide stupidity on the level of jumping in bushes, off of decks, climbing up sheds and all around being a jackass. It wouldn't be bad if he weren't doing it just to show off, but, in the end, that's what he was doing.

    Meanwhile, Horatio is running around keeping tabs on people in his house, making sure no one puked on or destroyed anything. He's not really enjoying himself, I can tell, because apparently some kids came to this get-together(yes, downgraded from "party" status) thinking that they'd be running around with lampshades on their heads, screaming and smashing shit. But they were wrong. I don't know what it is about some people that makes them inclined to be the Lampshade Guy-- the person with the lampshade on their head who does the hip-and-finger-dance, screaming, "Wooo, yeeeeah, woooo!" I usually just like hanging out with people when I'm drinking. Talking. That sort of thing.

    PK shows up. Man Count: EIGHT. Dropping him off is this kid "Frenchie." Man Count: NINE. We skirt around the issue that he and Lebanon had, before this day, been seriously dating. "I'm getting fucked tonight" is his comment about the party he's about to go to and about him getting over her. I show restraint in not telling him that I was on the verge of hooking up with his ex.

    Anyway, this get-together is officially a failure. But I'm okay with that, because there I am about to hook up with the only girl there. (And, I don't know if you know what that means, but I do.  It's like the first law of scarcity flipped on its head.  The First Law of Scarcity states that when there is less of something, its value increases.  Now, when you have a plethora of things to choose from, and you choose me, that means I am the best choice.  Nine guys and I win? Booyah.) And after taking her to her house so that she could drop off her car and sneak out, I did. Well, sort of. After a bit more drinking and hanging out, Lebanon and I find a nice bed upstairs to use for whatever our bodies desire. Which, in this case, was only making out, and I'll tell you why.

    I PULLED THE NICE GUY CARD OUT OF THE DECK, ASKING HER IF SHE WAS OKAY WITH THE SPEED AT WHICH WE WERE GOING! Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was considering the fact that she was vulnerable from her break up.

written July 16th, 2006