Can I tell ya’ll about the girl who vomited all over me the other night? If so, come closer to the screen but be sure to hold your food.
Last Friday after a festive happy hour, I was in the mood to twirk something. Or in the case of me living in a city that’s Top 40 hell, two-step every half-hour and hopefully do at least a dip or two by 1:45 a.m. when the club lights are turned on.
So I left the restaurant that we’ll refer to as doucheland (minus the great folks I was with, naturally) and headed off to gay world to meet with a friend. While waiting for that friend to find parking, I saw two girls try and carry their drunk ass friend.
As I was on the phone conversing with “Satana,” I watched these two girls struggle like hell to carry this poor foolishly drunk woman to their car.
They seemed to be moving fine albeit very slowly until drunk person tripped in her high stiletto and hit the ground.
I mean, it was if she got shot in the head by a sniper snuggled on the roof across the street the way she went down. The poor person almost cracked their skull on the cement block. I felt bad for her.
I got off the phone and walked over to see if she was alright.
Mistake number one.
I approach the treacherous three and said, “Is she okay? Do you all need help?”
I like to think of myself as a gentleman, but I also forgot to remind myself that sometimes I’m way too nice.
One girl said, “This is the last time we try to party like the gays! We can’t hang!”
The other says, “Yes, please. Can you help us carry her?”
I did and this was the first step in my shirt’s assassination.
I assumed that the girls were parked nearby. Say, around the corner. Try dumb far (hello, New York, I miss thee).
I ended up physically carrying this woman across the street and through another club’s parking lot and then a few more steps to where they drop their car off to valet.
While carrying this drunk ass girl to their car both girls kept thanking me repeatedly.
I kept saying don’t worry about it, it’s cool.
Wait for it. It’s coming.
At one point I was like, “Yeah, I got to put this girl down.” Once I did that’s when I realized something: This motherfucker threw up on me.
And when I say threw up on me, I mean her vomit was on my jeans and my shirt.
Like, all over my damn collar.
This wasn’t something you could rinse out in some random bar bathroom and keep it moving.
My clothes had been assaulted. Considering only a few weeks ago I apologized to my closet for the emotional stress I’ve placed upon it in recent months, this is a serious offense.
I looked like I got into a fight with an upset stomach seeking revenge.
One of the girls says, “Oh my God. I am so sorry. I don’t have any money.”
That was something that kept repeating while I carried their friend, only I didn’t want their money so I thought nothing of it.
In hindsight, maybe I should’ve taken the three dollars she kept offering me. It was definitely more appealing than what the other girl offered – that being her cooch.
Yes, that’s right. The other one offered her poon to me. If I had thought about the notion of entertaining her vagina monologue long enough, I might have thrown up on all three of them.
The other friend was like, “Oh my God, girl. Quit. He’s gay.”
I didn’t take first girl’s three dollars, I declined second girl’s invitation for a sexual eruption, and I dropped their drunk ass friend to their arms. I was over being a nice guy especially after it became painfully obvious that my good deed might prevent me from an even better deed — tipping a stripper. We all have our ways of stimulating the economy. That one is my preferred choice.
Once I found my friend and he saw the damage, I knew how bad it was.
That shirt didn’t deserve to be abused in that manner. After the damage was properly surveyed, I took my happy ass home.
By the time I parked my car I realized there was no way I was bringing that vomit-enriched shirt into my apartment. It’s bad enough I even wore while riding with Cameka (that’s the name of my car).
I tossed that shirt in the dumpster before I even bothered to get back inside of my place. My roommate and his girlfriend saw me walked in, laughed, to which I replied, “Don’t ask.”
This incident is the perfect summation of my life: I try to do something nice and people throw up on me.
The next time I see some drunk fool nearly crack her skull because she tried to party on the other side of the rainbow, I’m going to do a sign of the cross and keep it moving. Eh, I probably won’t but can ya’ll pray the next person doesn’t left any marks on me or my clothes?!
I’ll just assume you all had a better Friday night than I did.