But I have a story to tell. This past weekend, I went to Manhattan for a weekend of drunkeness in a different section of the eastern seaboard.
I drank a lot, received several lapdances, and possibly made an ass out of myself more times than I think.
I had only been to Manhattan once before in my life, a day trip with my dad. It was a rainy day, and it also happened to be the day that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston announced they were separating, which was in January 2005.
I was 21 at the time, but didn't drink while there, and being as I was only there for a day, didn't do too much in the way of revelry.
But let us start at the beginning.
Our story begins at 7 a.m. on Friday, December 26. I am up earlier than I would normally be to go to work, and I am on the way to Union Station, where a train will take me and my party to the Big Apple.
We got to NYC at about 12:30, and headed to our hotel, the Westin at Times Square. Top notch facility, even though they charge you $15 a day to use their wireless network, which is utter hog shit.
From there, we headed out to a bar called "Smith's Restaurant," which happened to be in my range of site from my hotel room window.
A quick lunch and a few beers later, and it was time to head to ground zero. We were going to meet several people at the church right across from ground zero, which was built in the early 1700's, and also happened to suffer no damage on 9/11.
We had dinner reservations at p.m., so we headed to a bar to kill time. The bartenders at the place we went (the name escapes me) happened to have two of the finest asses I have ever come across in my quarter-decade on this planet.
Two asses that, in the words of Champion Kind (the sportscaster in Anchorman), "I'd like to slap some barbecue sauce on that big ol' butt and just uh burr burr burr burr burrrr. OOwwwwooooo!!!!"
Those kind of asses.
So we had a few beers, played some touchscreen Photo Hunt (which I officially have lost my touch (pardon the pun) for, I couldn't even beat the high score of 249,000. There were times when I left 249,00 points for Photo Hunt in the toilet every morning), and killed some time.
Dinner was at a place called Fraunces Tavern, and this is where things get interesting. The building itself is very historical, it's actually a museum, and the restaurant leases the ground floor.
It's also the site of the first domestic terrorist bombing, in 1975, when some Puerto Ricans left a suitcase bomb in the dining room.
I start out by ordering a local beer, called Blue Point Toasted Lager. Very tasy, but as my dining companions began to put down martinis and Long Island Ice Teas like it was their job, I realized that I needed to step the fuck up.
So I ordered my old standard, Jack and Coke. Very few things in life are as consistently good as a Jack and Coke, and that's why it is a drink of choice for me.
I got my first one, and it tasted kind of funny. Kind of like.......scotch.
Now, I've only had scotch once in my life, and it was I was in Boston in the summer of 2005. Some people were buying drinks for everyone, only they were buying nothing but Scotch and Sprite.
I only had a few sips of that drink, and I had many more in the course of the evening, but all I tasted the next day was scotch, so I think I had a pretty good idea what cheap scotch tastes like.
But I wasn't drunk enough to cause a scene, plus the Scotch and Coke wasn't half bad (okay, yes it was, I was trying to take my second train trip of the day, this one toe drunkville, so I ignored it), and quickly finished the drink.
I ordered another one, made sure I clearly enunciated the syllables for "Jack and Coke" and waited for the drink to come.
It did and.....scotch. What the fuck?
I would like to tell you a made a scene, and it ended up with me maybe destroying a priceless artifact of American history, but alas, I took the pussy route, and kept my mouth shut.
Well, kind of. About three-quarters down the drink, I asked the person sitting next to me to taste my drink. He replied that it definitely was Scotch. I asked the female on my other side, and she replied that it was definitly Jack.
So now we had a dilly of a pickle on our hands.
I called the waiter over, asked him to taste it, and he immediately knew it was scotch. He said he had been telling the bartender Jack, and he had even written Jack down.
I was in the process of wondering if there was some shitty Scotch that I didn't know about called Jack McFuckstick's or something like that, but I couldn't think of anything.
Needless to say, the Jack and Coke came, and I polished off several of them to cleanse the palate.
It is not approximately 7:45, everyone I am with, ncluding myself, it drunk, and we decided to take the party back to the vicinity of our hotel.
We get to the hotel bar, and there is an Irishman and a Chinese (Korean? Vietnamese? Filipino?) guy tending bar. The Asian comes over to the three of us and asks for our drink order.
I order a Jack and Coke, one guy orders a Long Island, one guy orders a Martini.
Well, apparently I had the only drink that the guy knew how to make. Because instead of the Long Island, he made a mixture of Captain Morgan, sake, and Southern Comfort, all in a Martini glass. What the fuck? It tasted like what I imagine molasses and rat poison might taste like.
Instead of the dirty Martini, the guy made some red-ass fruity drink which would probably cause a uterus to sprout immediately inside of you after one drink, and put a fetus in that uterus after the second.
So we leave the hotel bar and head down the street, where Irish Car Bombs and shots of Patron abound. We soon decide to go to a strip club.
And here is where trouble starts. Knowing that the trip was coming up, I had gotten plenty of cash. And when cash meets a strip club, you end up leaving most of the former inside of the latter.
This night was no exception.
Usually, I am content to order $9 beers and leave a couple bucks in a G-String, reducing the financial damage, but given the amount of hard liquor that was already in me, that wasn't in the cards.
The first chick that comes and sits on my lap asking if I want a dance ends up getting an affirmative, and within thirty seconds, her thonged ass is grinding up and down on my shit.
Silly me, I had forgotten how much fun it is to have attractive women clothed in nothing but dental floss grope me.
I ended up getting three lap dances that night, each of which had their own subtle differences, which are noted below:
Stipper 1:
- A petite latina with dark hair, about 5'6".
- Good technique. She was good at using my genitals as a fulcrum to switch from grinding on my junk, to the straddling me with her tits in my face.
- She also went the extra mile, and ran her hands underneath my shirt, which earned some bonus points. And by bonus points, I mean stains in my underpants.
- She was probably my favorite. A wiry, raven-haired girl with a knack for conversation in a mild Russian accent. She was tall, 5'10" (I love tall chicks).
- While the dance wasn't the best, she added the crucial element that none of the other girls did: sound. She was moaning like crazy, and it definitely earned her some extra tip.
- She was more of the classic stripper. Tall, blonde, emotionally dead inside. But she was hot, I was drunk, and she definitely had the best set of breasts out of the three.
- She gave a good dance, her talent was running her hands through my hair and hideous beard, which was pretty sexy.
So I drank a few more $9 beers, turned down chances to go into the Champagne Room (after all, there is no sex in the Champagne Room), and decided that I was shitfaced at about 1:30 a.m.
I stumbled back to my hotel room, reeking of cheap stripper cologne, and having failed to "save" any strippers from that tragic life they were leading.
Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
Tomorrow: Day 2, in which our hero meets two jersey girls, and tries his damnedest to drain Manhattan of all its Jack Daniels.
How's that for a tease?
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