Adventures in dive-hopping

I haven't had occasion to go out with the girls in quite some time, due to conflicting schedules and business trips, so when Hazel beckoned for us to get together for her 29th birthday, who was I to say no? We made plans to go to the Cheesecake Factory, which I was actually pretty excited about because I've never been there. Besides, anything with "cheesecake" in the title is an instant friend of mine (evidenced by my ever-expanding ass), thus it was settled.

I paid my dues (i.e. oral) to the husband in order to guarantee my furlough for the evening, and proceeded to get ready to go out. I bought these strappy heels several months ago, and would finally have a chance to wear them, so I coordinated my ensemble around those.

Please try to ignore the
extraordinarily ugly toes.

6 o'clock rolled around and I called Yvonne to finalize the agenda.

K: "I'm running a bit late, I'll meet you there."
Y: "We're not going to the Cheesecake Factory."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Martha called and found out that the wait is already over an hour."
K: "So? We knew there would be a wait."
Y: "Well she doesn't wanna wait."
K: "Fine, whatever. Plan B?"
Y: "We're going to meet at my house and head to Margarita's."
K: "Ok. I'll be over in a bit."

[Continues to get ready. Notices toes are way uglier than usual, gives a quick paint job. Phone rings]

Y: "I think we're going to stay local."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Martha wants one of us to pick her up, and she's not on the way to Margarita's."
K: "Am I hallucinating here? Is it MARTHA's birthday?" [Martha is consistently high-maintenance and never wants to drive anywhere]
Y: "I know. She asked me if YOU could pick her up."
K: "Fat fucking chance! Tell that whore to hitchhike. With those tits, I'm sure she'll have no problem."
Y: "K, be nice."
K: "Fuck that. So what's the plan now."
Y: "Staying local. Going to [insert local restaurant name here]."
K: "Fine. Fuck. I'll go ahead of you guys and get a table so Princess D Cups doesn't have to wait."

[Finishes getting ready, gets in car and heads downtown. Comes upon huge traffic jam due to an event at the arena, no parking to be found at the restaurant. Calls Yvonne.]

K: "There's something going on at the arena, and no parking. Bad plan."
Y: "Ok, just head to Chili's then and we'll meet you there."
K: "Oooohhh, something new and different for us!"

I arrived at Chili's and went straight to the bar, ordering the strongest thing I could think of; a Long Island Iced Tea. My weakness for this drink is legendary, two of them and you have to peel me off the floor. In a fit of aggravation, I sucked down half of it in about 15 seconds. A hockey game was on, so I nursed my drink and trained my eyes on the big screen, attempting to find my happy place. Three hip checks later, I was calm.

The girls walked in and we got our table. I could clearly see why Martha didn't want to waste time driving, she was too busy pouring her D cups into a see through shirt with push up bra. One of the waiters actually tripped on his way by; cleavage is, indeed, a powerful thing. I veiled my annoyance with her long enough to get through dinner.

The check came and the question was presented again; "So what's the plan now?" This is where things got interesting.

M: "We're gonna crash a Jack 'n Jill."
K: "WHAT? Why?"
Y: "Cheap drinks."
K: "Do we know these people?"
M: "I know the bride's cousin's neighbor."
K: "Fantastic. Where is this happy event taking place?"
M: "The Polish American Club."
K: [stunned silence]
H: "It'll be fun!" [Hazel was three drinks deep, she would have considered a tractor pull fun at that point]
K: [shakes head]

So we were off to party with the Polaks and there wasn't a goddamned thing I could do about it. We walked in to find that it smelled like old men, cigars, and mold. A dodgy leather couch sat in the corner, and several candidates for "What Not To Wear" were gathered around it. There was this one chubby middle-aged chick wearing a short little skirt with knee boots and a cardigan. Every time she crossed her legs, it was like Basic Instinct.


The overall ensemble was far worse from the front, the skirt rode up about 4 inches (due to her gut) and it was fucking scary. Whoever sold her that skirt should be killed.


We got our $3.50 apiece mixed drinks and sat down. We quickly discovered that we'd missed the raffle. Fuck! I seethed with jealousy as the woman who had won the bath basket walked by, holding her prize. I briefly considered beating the bitch down in the parking lot for her seahorse-shaped dollar store soaps and bath poufs, but I resisted the urge.


Martha's tits, as always, were the center of attention. One eloquent young man commented to Hazel, "Wow! Can I meet your friend? She's got an AWESOME rack." Martha was distressed by this, and asked me to critique her ensemble.

Big mistake.

M: "K, is my shirt see-through?"
K: "I'd call it 'sheer', not quite 'see-through'."
M: "Some guy over there said he could see my tits!"
K: "Well, I would probably avoid flash photography if I were you."
M: "YOU HAVE YOUR CAMERA! Take a picture, I wanna see if my shirt is see-through."


Martha promptly put her sweater back on, and there was an audible groan of disappointment from the males in the crowd. Move along people, nothing to see here.

3 rounds later, the dilemma again presented itself; "So what's the plan now?" Off to a local watering hole that we always seem to end up at, no matter how crowded or how smelly it happens to be. The only reason I agreed to go is because this particular dive has a Ms. PacMan game that is DOUBLE FUCKING SPEED. No lie, Ms. PacMan on crack is the only way to describe it. Awesome. We piled into the car and headed downtown.

I immediately headed to the back of the bar, fighting my way past hoochie mamas and metrosexuals in their designer jeans with striped shirts, only to find my beloved Ms. PacMan displaced by "BuckHunter". I stood there with my mouth open.

Y: "K, what's wrong?"
K: [unintelligible muttering, sadly points to BuckHunter]
Y: "Oh honey, I'm sorry."
K: [points again, grief-stricken, unwilling to accept that it's really gone]
Y: "Maybe they rotate the games, it'll probably be back next month!"
K: "False hope is cruel, Yvonne. Cruel."

[Y drags me to the bar. I continue to gaze longingly at the back corner. Motherfuckers. My night is ruined.]

The rest of the night was interesting to say the least. Hazel got plastered and started offering up her tits for autographs and birthday wishes.



The piece de resistance came when a local radio personality decided to do his trademark "Final Countdown" dance at last call, which was particularly funny because he's a short chubby dude with questionable facial hair.


Martha ended up in a dance-off with him, and he got the thrill of his night by having her ample D cups bounced in his face when she busted out her trademark "Running Man" move.

Hazel was this [] close to going home with some random guy when we dragged her out kicking and screaming. "I LIKE HIM! I'LL GET MY OWN RIDE HOME! LET ME GO YOU BITCHES!"

Yvonne got Hazel home around 2:30am, and she immediately had to go throw up. She stumbled into the bathroom and ended up crashing through the shower door, waking up the whole house with her hysterical laughter. She then proceeded to cover the bathroom in vomit. By some miracle, she still managed to drag herself out of bed at 8am to take her boys to church.

Today I'm completely exhausted and peering at my computer screen through tiny, bloodshoot eye slits...I think I need to find married friends to hang out with, I'm having more and more trouble keeping pace.