Here’s my New Year’s Eve plan.... Eat a light dinner, which means a MEDIUM pizza not a LARGE, and head out for a night of karaoke hilarity. Scoffing? Laughing at my plan for karaoke domination? Let me explain to you people of simple minds.
Small, dark, dive bar with low low prices. So low in fact, they are a cash only bar. Easy on the wallet. My kinda joint. I know like 4 people that go there. Therefore, I will not be bothered by the once a year let’s go out and get all shitfaced and slobber on each other as we bump and grind our scantily clad cottage cheese asses on the dance floor while knocking people over with our outstretched arms holding our chocolate-tinis away from us so we don’t spill them on our new shiny deep v mini dresses that we bought two sizes too small.
I can sit in relative comfort, unrepentant as I enjoy a macro brew, and flex the golden pipes now and then. I accept the standing ovations from the adoring crowd, and kiss my own image in the dirty bathroom mirror at midnight, as I’m the only person worth kissing in that dump. My champagne will be in a thimble sized dixie cup. It will taste surprisingly like kerosene or lighter fluid, and I will ask for seconds, as the drunken frat boy next to me will high five his housemate during Don’t Stop Believin’ and spill my first.
As I step out front curbside to light my smoke, my shirt ignites from the leftover kero-pagne, and I will be forced to go shirtless, and zip up my leather jacket while I flawlessly perform Low Places from Garth Brooks, while the next up singer vomits on the power cables for the lyrics television off to my right. I do the whole song shirtless, and smelling vomit and electrical fire smell, and this causes my own gag reflex to engage. My last refrain of the chorus ends with “I’ve got friends in Lowwwaaaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhhh” as I projectile vomit on the back of the nice girlfriend bent over holding the hair for the next up singer as she recovers on the sticky floor after expelling her own dinner. I see pepperoni and banana peppers on her tramp stamp. I bet she wasn’t planning on that being what landed on her back tonight.
I stumble to my car, and find that I’ve got a second wind, as I’ve eliminated all foul substances from my system! WONDERFUL! Let’s go scout another party!!! I pass out in my own urine with the gas pump hose still in my tank two blocks from the karaoke dive bar.
On second thought, perhaps I will just stay in and watch House reruns. I can’t make up my mind.
Small, dark, dive bar with low low prices. So low in fact, they are a cash only bar. Easy on the wallet. My kinda joint. I know like 4 people that go there. Therefore, I will not be bothered by the once a year let’s go out and get all shitfaced and slobber on each other as we bump and grind our scantily clad cottage cheese asses on the dance floor while knocking people over with our outstretched arms holding our chocolate-tinis away from us so we don’t spill them on our new shiny deep v mini dresses that we bought two sizes too small.
I can sit in relative comfort, unrepentant as I enjoy a macro brew, and flex the golden pipes now and then. I accept the standing ovations from the adoring crowd, and kiss my own image in the dirty bathroom mirror at midnight, as I’m the only person worth kissing in that dump. My champagne will be in a thimble sized dixie cup. It will taste surprisingly like kerosene or lighter fluid, and I will ask for seconds, as the drunken frat boy next to me will high five his housemate during Don’t Stop Believin’ and spill my first.
As I step out front curbside to light my smoke, my shirt ignites from the leftover kero-pagne, and I will be forced to go shirtless, and zip up my leather jacket while I flawlessly perform Low Places from Garth Brooks, while the next up singer vomits on the power cables for the lyrics television off to my right. I do the whole song shirtless, and smelling vomit and electrical fire smell, and this causes my own gag reflex to engage. My last refrain of the chorus ends with “I’ve got friends in Lowwwaaaaarrrrrgggghhhhhhhhh” as I projectile vomit on the back of the nice girlfriend bent over holding the hair for the next up singer as she recovers on the sticky floor after expelling her own dinner. I see pepperoni and banana peppers on her tramp stamp. I bet she wasn’t planning on that being what landed on her back tonight.
I stumble to my car, and find that I’ve got a second wind, as I’ve eliminated all foul substances from my system! WONDERFUL! Let’s go scout another party!!! I pass out in my own urine with the gas pump hose still in my tank two blocks from the karaoke dive bar.
On second thought, perhaps I will just stay in and watch House reruns. I can’t make up my mind.
This was gross and yet,...gloriously written. Hey,..anybody who is into House is awesome in my book. Happy New anything you can get your hands on.
ReplyDeleteHoly shit. That was the saddest, grossest rendition of Garth Brooks I've ever heard.
ReplyDeleteOh, and all that puking was pretty gnarly as well.
Those memories are not exactly setting the proper feeling for the new year.
Maybe this is the year to stay in and cruise the internet for YouTube videos of all your friends being stupid instead!
Happy 2011, my friend!
Getting comments from kewl people made my NYE that much better. Thanks, you rule!!
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