THERE COMES A TIME IN EVERY PERSON’S LIFE WHEN THEY GENUINELY FEEL AS IF THEY WERE BORN TO LOSE. SOME PEOPLE GET THAT FEELING ALL THE TIME, AND SOME PEOPLE GET THAT FEELING AS A DIRECT RESULTS OF SOME SHITTY EXPERIENCE OR ANOTHER. I AM A MEMBER OF THE FORMER GROUP. I HAVE A LOT OF “WORST DAYS EVER.”
Timbro’s socially disastrous girlfriend nearly gets his face punched in; Night ends in possible date rape
I like to party. There, I said it. I dance, I sing karaoke, I drink beers, and like to play DJ at dance parties. I get down, I get back up, then I go to bed. All innocent fun if you ask me. You see, the thing with me is, I like to think that I keep myself in check. Equal parts well-oiled party machine and well-behaved gentleman, if you like. My wifey is entirely different though. Equal parts social deviant and flagrant party fouler, to keep the “equal parts” train rolling. Don’t get me wrong, she’s radical, funny, smart, and a TFB (total fuckin’ babe), but get a coupla’ cocktails in her, and she gets all antsy in the pantsy to cause some trouble. This is the story of my worst date ever…
So we’re at a house party, all cuttin’ loose and what have you. We’re drinking wine from the bottle, socializing with friends, mingling amongst the party-goers, and having an all around swell time. Admittedly, there was a certain “steak-face” element to the affair, which is something of a rarity in Portland, but that’s the way she goes sometimes. Anyhow, we get to dancing to some cuts out on the dancefloor. Really killing it if you ask me, but you always feel like the world’s best dancer with a bottle of 7-11 merlot splashing ever so gently in your gullet. I suppose this is where the problem started. The DJ was playing nothing but hip-hop, which I suppose is fine for most, but I really feel that you need to mix it up with some club anthems, a la The Presets, Ratatat, or whatever the hip dance crowd is listening to these days. Maybe hit the cross-fader and mix in some 80’s favorites, some Justin Timberlake, and sure, give me some Biggy, gimme some Destiny’s Child, whatever. Just mix it up! So long story longer, wifey gets a bit bored and starts scheming something. I can see it deep in her eyes that she’s no longer paying attention to the moves she’s throwing on the dance floor, but rather focusing on a way to liven things up a bit.
In between songs, she leaves the floor for a hot minute, and comes back with a bottle of champagne. Not thinking much of a little mid-dance refreshment, I carry on with my sweet, sweet dance moves. Then disaster strikes. My lady friend, with an assist from another friend of mine, shakes the bottle and starts spraying champagne this way and that. The drunk dance crowd is fairly into it, but just as a spout of sticky nectar is erupting from the bottle, one of the housemates walks in and fucking flips out. Rightfully so, I suppose. Anyhow, he’s well into beer-muscles phase, and is madder than a wet hen.
“What the fuck!” says the steak necked gentleperson. “Who am I gonna hit!”
Uh oh. Things are going pear-shaped fast for ol’ Timbro at this point. I’m a modern gentleman. A lover of peace. A maker of love, and a not-maker of war. A supporter of fine film, cheeseburgers, and hand-holding. An opponent of uppercuts, karate chops, and almost any scenario where a bottle makes contact with my head (credit amanda). That said, I can’t rightfully let my lady take some heat from a sexually-frustrated former high-school wrestler who may or may not be too drunk to realize hitting people is not really that radical.
“Woah, fella,” I say. “There isn’t a problem here. A little champagne was spilled on the floor. I’ll clean it up. No worries, friend.”
Great. I took the moral high-road here. All is well in my universe again.
“No way, dude. That’s fucked up. That’s my living room, bro! Someone’s gonna get fucked up. Who am I gonna hit!”
God damn it! Didn’t I just say I would clean up any liquid on his floor? I’m not really having this, so I decide to switch gears.
“Alright, man. If that’s how it’s got to be, you can hit me.” I take a step closer. “Do it. Punch me in the face!”
Now, let it be known that this is a pretty dumb move. I’ve actually had it backfire on me before. From personal experience, the worst thing that can happen to you when you ask to get punched in the face, is your counterpart decides to take you up on the offer and land a haymaker right on your dome-piece. Too late now, though. I’ve already got two feet in the pool, and it’s very likely that I’m about to get wet.
“Come on, man. Do it. You said you needed to hit someone. Hit me…do it!”
I don’t like getting punched in the face, but I’m about as mentally prepared for it as I can be at this point. I can almost feel the blow glancing off my eye, immediately causing the skin to redden and swell. I can picture myself trying to hold my ground, but succumbing to the punch-drunk and finding myself tits up on the floor, in front of dozens or party people.
The fellow looks at me intently, squares me up, and says: “I’m not gonna hit anyone…but that was fucked up. That’s my living room, bro!”
Phew. Crisis averted. The conversation had come full circle. An interesting drunk phenomena that we all know. That moment when you forget where in the conversation you are, so your brain just picks back up from the last thing it remembers. Sometimes it’s from a totally different conversation, sometimes it kind of makes sense, and sometimes it saves your ass.
We leave, post haste. For some reason, not only is everyone at the party mad at me (keep in mind I did nothing except make everyone jealous with my dance moves), but all of a sudden my girlfriend was mad at me, too. She claimed I was acting like a tough-guy. Hardly my intent. Whatever. At this point, I was destined to fail. Born to lose. Let’s go home, watch a movie, and see if I can’t win you over and maybe “stuff your guts.” I mean that in the most romantic way possible, mind you. In the words of Tenacious D, I was determined to fuck her gently.