Monday, September 7, 2009


It's tragic that you had to deal with that many idiots at once

I think I did a disservice to the last guy I dated, Shmucks, in my last blogpost by painting him as an idiotic, delusional, lying dirtbag.

The truth is he's a really, really idiotic, delusional, lying dirtbag, and I neglected to paint an accurate picture of how truly idiotic he is.

His group of friends consists of about twenty guys who have all known each other (and gotten into trouble together) since high school, and apparently haven't changed very much since those days even though they are now thirty, mostly married, and some even managed to procreate (Bestie R put it best when she said, "If I was unlucky enough to have one of their kids, I would just put a football helmet on its head at birth and cross my fingers for the best").

At least once a month, these esteemed members of society congregate in the city or at their hometown in upstate New York and proceed to shotgun beers and shoot tequila and get belligerent with random strangers (because as I mentioned earlier they are privileged white Jewish guys who are under the impression that they are "gangsta"), until at least one person is puking, one person is missing, and one person is arrested.

I had heard multiple anecdotes about these MENSA conferences, but I figured in typical idiot guy fashion, Shmucks was just exaggerating to make himself look cooler (I have no idea why that would make someone look cooler.) After all, a bunch of thirty-year olds with wives and kids and respectable jobs couldn't be THAT bad, right?

Fast forward to Shmucks' birthday. All of his friends and his older brother came into town for the celebration, about twenty guys in total.

(Quick Side Note on Shmucks' Brother: Shockingly, he seems to be the fuckup of the group. For some bizarre reason, he has this propensity towards drinking and driving. The moment alcohol hits his lips, he feels the need to get in the car and speed down the Palisades Parkway until he's pulled over. Apparently, this is an improvement from what he used to do, which was to blow massive amounts of cocaine, then drink and drive. He's on his third DUI in five years, and on the verge of doing real time.)

The theme for the evening (oh yes, they had a theme) was inappropriate t-shirts. For example, Shmucks was clad in a shirt that demonstrated Karma Sutra positions using cartoon vegetables. His friend C was wearing a shirt that said "I Kick Puppies." He had it custom made because apparently when he tried to text "I Lick Pussies" to a girl, his phone keypad automatically changed it to "I Kick Puppies." This did not have the intended effect on the lucky lady recipient (although I'm not sure she would've been that impressed with the original text either).

They started playing beer pong at 4PM and before they even went out to the bar, had polished off three handles of tequila and eight cases of beer. I started getting drunk texts around 8PM that made no sense whatsoever and by the time I met up with them at the bar at midnight, they were completely wasted.

I walked into the bar to find Shmucks about to throw an empty beer bottle at the head of someone literally three times his size while his friends held him back. I should've known what I was in for, just cut my losses, and walked right back out the door.

Instead, we managed to convince Shmucks it was time for him to go home and we attempted to hail a cab. Unfortunately, at the corner we ran into some other drunk white dudes already trying to get a cab, and one of them stumbled up to me to say, "Which one of these losers is your boyfriend? You should come home with me instead."

Of course, at this point, the pugnacious idiots I was with got in his face and started shoving him and telling him to back off, while I futilely tried to stop them. Luckily for me, at this moment a cab pulled up, and I managed to force Shmucks and his friends into the taxi.

As Shmucks got in, he yelled at the guy, "Fuck you douchebag!" (What can I say - although his vocabulary is limited, he's clearly a poet in the making), and slammed the door. The guy swung his fist towards Shmucks but ended up punching the door of the taxi just as we sped off. The idiots I was with, of course, found this amusing, while I was just exasperated.

I thought at this point the excitement for the night was over. However, we arrived at Shmucks' apartment to find a brand new scene of chaos.

The rest of his crew had made it back there before us. As four of them played beirut in the kitchen (with the case of beer they had just picked up on the way), two of them were passed out and snoring in the living room, and their friend J was in the bathroom puking his guts out (Apparently he had only eaten a salad before the binge drinking commenced and was now worse for the wear. What an amateur).

Shmucks proceeded to find Sharpies in the apartment so that they could draw on the faces of the passed out idiots while the awake idiots took pictures of them in posed positions (seriously, after the ball-slap game, this is the most absurd aspect of boy behavior I've ever encountered).

Then, everyone congregated around the bathroom to leer at J, who was half-passed out on the toilet, and argue about the best course of action to take care of him.

"We should give him some Advil," someone piped in.

"Yeah, otherwise he'll feel awful tomorrow and have a bad hangover," someone else concurred.

"Yeah, let's make him take these Advil right now," someone said, pulling the pills out of the medicine cabinet.

"That's a terrible idea," I told them, confiscating the Advil. "His stomach is all messed up right now, which is why he's puking. The last thing he needs is Advil, which will make his stomach feel worse since there's nothing in it. What he needs is water and bread to soak up the alcohol."


"Are you a doctor?" one of them asked me.

"No, just not a moron," I informed him.

They decided to respect my orders and I prepared to go home and call it a night, having done my good deed for the night in not letting these fools kill J, when Shmucks decided he was mad at everyone. I was sitting across the room from him, saying goodbye to his friend C, when he suddenly launched a wooden stool towards us. As it fell the floor, narrowly avoiding both of us, I jumped out of the way and yelled at him, "What the F are you doing you jackass?"

At which point Shmucks yelled at me, "Shut up! I've had enough of your lip for tonight!"

C jumped up and yelled back at him, "Stop yelling at her just because you're an asshole! She didn't do anything!"

Since he was too far away for me to slap his nuts, I yelled back, "Fuck you! I'm not the drunk asshole throwing stools around!"

At which point we all started yelling at each other at the top of our lungs while Shmucks and C heaved whatever was in arms' length toward the other one.

It was at this moment that Shmucks' older brother stumbled into the room, and finding that the bathroom was occupied (with J, still puking), he limped over to Shmucks and projectile vomited all over Shmucks' bare feet.

The throwing and yelling ceased immediately before C and I looked at each other and burst out in laughter. Shmucks, obviously, was not amused and continued to yell at all of us and his brother for being such a "fuckup," but I didn't hear anything he said because we were laughing too hard.

I thanked C for standing up for me, made sure J was still alive, and left the apartment as Shmucks wiped up his brother's vomit while said brother tried to convince everyone in the room to give him his car keys because he was "totally OK to drive home now."

I think we can guess who ended up in the slammer that night...

It shouldn't surprise anyone to know that night was the last time I saw Shmucks. I shall always cherish my last image of him, crouched down on the floor, screaming bloody murder as he attempted to wipe his brother's vomit off his feet and the floor. Oh, the memories.

And hopefully, I have cleared up any lingering doubts you have about the extent of Shmucks' idiocy and douchebaggery. I think it's an understatement to say that he set the bar for how low my standards can be.

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