Thursday, February 6, 2014

hilarious party games for drunk girls.

who has slept with the most weirdos and/or dirtbags and/or idiots? let's start right off the bat by clarifying that this list is at least four dudes short. blame the vodka, or my vagina's selective memory, but i was washing the dishes the other day and was like, "oh shit, that dude who worked at best buy." then, "omg that chemist with the southern accent who couldn't keep the, ahem, wind in his sails." carly and alicia and i were at five star sucking down tecate and buffalo wings when one of us had the bright idea to make lists of all of the dudes with whom we'd had full penetration. don't be shy, hooker. the rules: no makeouts, no hand- and/or blowjobs, no dudes we met on craigslist and only let go down on us three or four times because he seemed really depressed and we wanted to be nice and make him, um, feel better? I LOST THIS ROUND, but only because adding "homies i've sent pictures of my tits to" and "men i have laid next to with all of my clothes on but not touching sexually" got me disqualified. JERKS.

what will cheese fries taste like mixed with hot wings plus a room temperature pork tamale and the half of a milky way i found at the bottom of my purse when i vomit them into a public trash can during the walk home? what is this. why do we do this. why in the fuck do we drink so much that we can neither form coherent sentences nor resist going home with the dude wearing knockoff gucci shades in the club then decide to chase those bad decisions with as many delicious greasy snack foods as we can fit in our tiny party purses. as if all that champagne wasn't reason to vomit enough, we gotta go housing bacon double cheeseburgers after pouring bottles of it over our heads. i can't even count the number of times i have been slurring into the speaker of a drive-thru from the back of a cab. or, better still, teetering on foot in some jeans i probably pissed in arguing at the window about how unfair it is that my body is not considered a car. the rules: throw a party or holler at a disco or maybe just sit alone in your bathroom in your good bra and get tipsy, then EAT ALL THE FOOD IN YOUR HOUSE. bonus points if the food is takeout that is more than five days old or is eaten directly from the garbage.

how many beers does it take before i send a dumb ass ill-advised text to some asshole? so i'm really good about deleting numbers i shouldn't use. if you piss me off and i charge you to the game i delete your number immediately, partially so that when you inevitably reach out to me again i'm not a total fucking liar when i ask "WHO DIS" in my response, but mostly because i know what an emotional nightmare i can be when i'm totally fucking hammered and can't be sure that i won't text BITCH WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME to everyone who has ever rejected me yet is somehow still taking up space in my phone. what is it about slumping half passed out in the back of a cab that turns us into weepy romantics all of a sudden? why can't we just fall the fuck asleep and asphyxiate on our vomit like normal humans!? the rules: BE BORED AND ALONE AND HAVE MORE THAN 12% BATTERY LIFE LEFT ON YOUR PHONE AND AN UNLIMITED TEXT PLAN. then start reminiscing. you should probably also grab some kleenex, put on some mary j blige, and bring that bottle of red wine to bed with you. getting up a dozen times is exhausting.

can i make it to the toilet and get these tight ass jeans rolled down before i actually start to pee? one time i went to the darkroom (RIP, welp) for reggae night and thought it was a jam idea to wear super high heels in tandem with the tightest jeans known to the lane bryant clearance rack. corona was on special for $2 a bottle which means a lot of dudes in badu headwraps were buying my beers that evening, and i probably had 137 before the DJ even got to "heads high." FUCK, I LOVE DANCEHALL. 1 it is basically the sexiest music ever and 2 it is the easiest music to dance to while drunk. all you have to do is sway, my dude. just move your butt back and forth in time to the beat and you gwine look di fred astaire of kingston, gyal. also: jamaican dudes love a big ol' healthy gyal cocking it up pan dem. seriously, the more deathfat, the more bashy. ALL FRUITS RIPE. anyway, i waited too long to go pee. i didn't factor in the tightness of my sweaty jeans or the type of bathroom line TWO DOLLAR BEERS WOULD CAUSE UP IN A BLACK CLUB, and by the time i tiptoed in those awful shoes over to the group of pissed off bitches in their pum pum shorts i knew it was already over and just bolted outside and peed my pants while standing in the middle of the goddamned street, fucking dummy. THEN I WENT BACK IN THE CLUB. because "murder she wrote" came on and that is my jam. buk buk buk! the rules: 1 drink too much watery beer. 2 tempt fate.

which one of us gets to talk to the one hot dude in this bar? the first time i heard a girl hiss "dibs on the guy in the dark plaid" or whatever while waiting for a bartender to line up our shots i thought, "WHAT. are we about to get into some lord of the flies type shit up in here?!" because i have no problem killing and eating a dude if that's what circumstances call for. but she wasn't talking about sacrificial murder, nor was she referring to the scientific system chicagoans use to hold parking spaces we've dug out after a snowstorm. no, that bitch was laying claim to the virginity of a young man who had entered the drinking establishment we happened to be patronizing one evening this past fall. i had no idea that this was even a fucking thing, that you could tell bitches to fall back off a man you hadn't so much as introduced yourself to yet. AND THEY COMPLIED. i was fucking dumbfounded, bro. that is some chivalry the likes of which i have never before seen and vehemently refuse to participate in. if i see a gentleman whose face i'd like to drape my tits over while lazily shifting my hips around on top of him and you call dibs on that motherfucker then you'd better get your best jokes ready bitch because we are officially at war, and I AM A COMEDY GENIUS. the rules: man, fuck this game. if you're funnier than i am and your tits are equally jamming then we should approach this dumb ape together and let darwin sort the shit out. either that or do it motherfucking hunger games style. may the odds be ever in your favor.

be a love and buy my book.