Easy Like Sunday Morning

Yesterday a friend got me a giant red “easy” button. Staples used to use these things in their ads a while ago. I’m staring at it now and thinking of alternate and devious uses for this thing.

So far, the run-away favorite is to attach it to one of my belt buckles. Mmm…classy.

I realize that as a man, I’m inherently easy. Hey, if I see cleavage on a 90 year-old burn victim, I’m popping wood. It’s not something I’m particularly proud of. But a man’s got needs, and right now my needs have me twenty seconds away from picking up a hooker.

But I’m not bitching about that. The important bit of information to take away is that I’m at the point where I want sex so badly that I’m unable to think, speak, or act coherently—even when I’m not actively sabotaged by my friends.

Over the weekend I was dragged out with one mission: find Ehren a girl. I didn’t ask, in fact, I didn’t really have much of a choice. However, it was made clear to me that I had two options: go out trolling for pussy, or have my tires slashed and then go trolling for pussy.

We arrived at bar where one of my friends had agreed to meet a girl she thought might be my type. Now, the night was growing old by then. We’d reached the point in the evening where the single girls finally realize that no better options are available tonight, and if they want dick they’ll have to make due with what’s available. So as we sat at the bar and made small talk, we were doing our best to ignore the couples making out three feet away. Drunk people making out are gross. It was like watching a scene from Aliens.

To take our minds off the horror movie unfolding one stool over, we ordered a few rounds of whiskey.

First whiskey: I introduce myself to the girl I’m being set up with. Some mildly uncomfortable jokes are exchanged.

Second whiskey: We’re all friends now. I help myself to her hat. She throws a fuss.

Third Whiskey: She makes a joke about her boobs. I flash the bar to the horror of everyone, I’m sure.

Fourth Whiskey: I’m outside. Alone.

See, somewhere between the third and the fourth shot, my friend muscled her way between us and began talking to the girl. I mean, as unsteady as my friend was walking at this point, I was shocked at the unstoppable flow of words that escaped her mouth. I would have needed a crowbar to pry my way into that conversation.

There was no getting them apart for the rest of the evening.

Later, I asked my friend, “What the fuck was that? I thought you wanted me to get to know that girl? Do you have any idea how much you just cock blocked me?”

“No, don’t worry!” she protested. “I told her that you really, really like her. And that you’re very single and have no prospects!”

“Thanks.” I said. “Maybe you could have made up some diseases that would have made me more attractive.”

I guess I have a few points to make with this story:

1. My friend can’t handle her whiskey.
2. I’m going to be single for a loooooooooooooooooooong time.
3. I don’t need an easy button. I’ll just get my friend drunk, and she can announce my level of availability to anyone in 200 yards.