The Clueless Never Score

A week earlier, I was invited to a friend’s Super Bowl party. The only problem was when they invited me, we were all completely shit-faced. So the next morning when I began sobering up, I hadn’t a clue whose party I agreed on attending. I just remembered them being adamant that I attend, that it would be awesome and that they loved me. What is it about alcohol that makes straight people of the same sex profess their undying love for one another? And why is it that alcohol only allows you to remember things like the number of drinks you had, the order in which you drank them and the exact percentage of alcohol a Booker’s shot contains? Yet alcohol conveniently lets you forget more important facts like the name of the girl whose phone number is now stuffed in your pocket. All you remember is that she was a good kisser and was into you enough to offer up her digits. However, that doesn’t help much unless you plan on calling and asking if "hey you" is there.

It took a good of couple days before I figured out a tactful way to unravel who was behind the mystery invite. Ok, who am I kidding? I didn’t do it tactful. It was more like a phone call to my buddy that consisted of..."Dude, whose house are we invited to for the Super Bowl? I can’t wait to see Tom Brady’s perfect season shoved up his ass."

Little did I know that upon arriving to the Super Bowl party that I would have a pair of humungous fake breasts attached to my elbow the entire night. Now I know what you are thinking, but no it actually wasn’t good. Well the breasts were 23 and very perky so that was good, but the problem with theses giant breasts were that they were attached to a mouth that just would not shut up. I mean NEVER shut up! I swear the girl didn’t even take a breath between sentences. It was like one pointless topic after another that she just went on and on and on about. I tried to drink myself to a happy place in my mind, but that failed. I looked at my nachos and cheese and considered slicing my wrists and throat with a broken nacho. Although I reconsidered when I became afraid that the last moments of my life would be lying there hearing her give me play-by-play details of her trip to Vegas where she stayed up for the last 48 hours, got lost on the strip, nearly missed her flight home and…blah, blah, blah.

Enough already! Stop talking! Stop talking because I’m not listening. In desperation, I even txted my friend sitting 10 feet away with the message "HELP ME!!!" My pleas for help go unanswered as they were all getting a good laugh out of my torturous situation. My friends are caring like that.

Let’s do the math. Guy + 60 inch HDTV + SuperBowl = hush. When I keep getting up when you are in mid-sentence, chances are I’m not interested in what you are saying. When I keep leaning forward and to the left to escape your jabbering in my right ear, chances are I’m trying to hear the game and not you. When I start grinding my teeth and the vein in my forehead begins to protrude because I’m feeling highly irritated after missing the first three quarters of the game, I want you to leave me alone. And finally when I purposely sit elsewhere in the living room where you couldn’t sit down beside me and continue talking, get a fucking clue!

When the game is over, she corners me again, this time asking if she can give me her number. I tell her I have a girlfriend (a lie) just because I can’t even begin to imagine what a date with her must be like. Just think, on a date she would have my full undivided attention and I can only assume that she would talk even more, if that is even possible. I just can’t have that nightmare take place so I used the "I have a girlfriend" line. It worked, barely.