The DB1's Thursday Night
The DB1 (that’s me), went out for a night of Hollywood debauchery and lascivious wrongness last night. Things were going good. I’d snuck a bottle of Night Train into the bar, and was feeling the liquid confidence of a true douchebag. I was even hinting at the popped collar and ‘Bag Hand Gestures of uber-scrote. I hadn’t yet gone over the edge. But for my readers? I was willing to take that risk.
I’d even cornered an innocent Sweet Polly Purebread, fresh off the boat from some flyover state I wasn’t even sure was in the union. An actress-model-something-something. She laughed at my jokes. I surreptitiously glanced at her cleavage. We pretended we knew what the other was talking about.
Good times.
Until Grinny McCheese came by. That’s him intercepting Purebread. I decided to take a camera-phone pic of the event as it happened. Like a hurricane of douchitude, my charm, my moment in the sun with model hottie, was pounded like a gang of bikers running a train on a 19 year old on Castro Street. Overwhelmed Midwestern Hottie didn’t know what hit her. This oily scrote’s tallness, chin, and 64 pearly white teeth came down the road to Damascus, and like Saul before her, the Hottie saw the Light. It was like competing with a human barracuda. The next thing I knew, poor innocent hottie was dazed and confused by the stench of douchebaggery and the blinding shine reflecting off his 124 pearly white teeth. And like Keyser Soze before her, she was gone. Home to polish Grinny’s oily digits like a shoeshine boy in rush hour.
But that’s okay. A few more shots, and I barely remembered my name.
Oh, who am I kidding. Curling up in fetal position in the bathroom doesn’t make me a puss. Does it?
