Thursday night at one of our favorite bars was getting to be a regular thing…as was the terrible hangover Friday morning. The choice of day might seem a bit odd, but P Tyme and I had mapped a few of our bars according to the night, and Thursday was a good one.

At this particular bar there is a beer pong tourney upstairs every Thursday… although this is a cool enough concept on its own, you have to remember that every headband wearing, collar popping, frat boy wannabe is gonna sign up…and we don’t need to go to Hollywood to play pong competitively.

Needless to say, while the brosephs are upstairs, the women aren’t. Come most Thursday nights, Part tyme and I didn’t even need to move around to start talking to people. In fact we both had better luck just sitting at the bar shooting the shit…which is great, cause I’m lazy as fuck.

As well as we could do, this laziness also opened us up to being hit on by…less fortunate women…the type that use the line “hey guys, I need to get more drinks to close my tab, can I buy you a drink?”

If I was willing to sit through a stupid conversation for a free drink, or born in Nebraska, this line could’ve worked…but I’ve seen this exact move pulled before… by men… on very drunk women. Also, and more importantly, we were downstairs….there’s no drink minimum downstairs! We both took the free drink anyways, but that’s a different story.

This particular night opened like any other; downstairs full of women, brahs slowly moving upstairs, and the occasional drunk girl screaming about something uninteresting. We find a spot at the bar and proceed to put back a few whiskey sours, as they were on the $5 drink wheel for 15min. Managing to grab four, the wheel is rolled by another giggling drunk girl…$5 Irish car bombs…this night is gonna hurt…

Putting down two, back to back, we decide to slow down a bit. P tyme notices two women across the bar giving him looks. If I can recall correctly they looked drunk and were eating meat on a stick, but with drunk goggles I’m sure that could be sexy. If I have one rule (I don’t…except no fat chicks), it’s never bother a girl when she’s drunk and eating meat off a stick…

  • P tyme: hey guys, how’s the night going?
  • Saber tooth: (food in mouth) grumble
  • Tyrannosaur: good
  • P tyme: well you look incredibly bored
  • Tyrannosaur: I am…
  • Chef: hahahahahaha!

If I can recall correctly, p tyme looked back at me with a look of apathy

  • P tyme: points upstairs
  • Chef: yup

This would be our second adventure upstairs that night. Although the memories tend to blur together, I can distinctly remember P tyme pointing out two women standing, chatting together in the sea of people. There are few things I regret, but not being close enough to hear what P tyme said to them has got to be up there.

All I can remember is him walking up to them and, in the span of about 10 seconds, saying something… enough to get them both to walk away in a hurry, and I think one of them may have started crying. Needless to say, I decide to close out the tab and call this night, thinking it can’t get much weirder.

We head to IHOP because fucking EVERYONE loves pancakes. After finishing up I check the time and mention leaving so P tyme hits the bathroom.

I’m almost positive I pass out for a period of time, because I suddenly snap to and realize that it’s been almost half an hour and P tyme has probably fallen in the toilet. I go to take a piss and to check up on my inebriated friend (mostly to take a piss) and bump into him as he’s leaving

  • Chef: you pass out?
  • P tyme: nah, I couldn’t puke! My body wouldn’t let me get rid of it!

By now P tyme has come out of his blackout, as he remembered most of the rest of the night. I did have to remind him that on the way to his car he totally ate shit in the middle of the parking lot. Mind you, the parking lot is full of cops, FULL OF THEM.

I didn’t even bother to look at the cops, or help P tyme up. I don’t even think I laughed…I’m pretty sure in my mind I was convinced that if I just kept walking the cops wouldn’t think I was getting a ride from him…even though we both got in the same damn car.

I get the brilliant idea that we could sober up in about a half hour, so I set an alarm on my phone when we get into the car and suggest we take it easy for a bit. P tyme agrees, quickly turns the car on to roll down his window, and chucks the keys in the backseat. I wake up to the sound of my alarm going off; the only difference being the car is fucking moving, and were a good 20min down the road. In my state of half consciousness, I mutter:

  • Chef: wha…what the fuck?! We’re moving?!

P tyme responds in like with:

  • P tyme: What the fuck?

Not exactly the reassurance I was looking for coming from the dude behind the wheel. We manage to get home without incident only through P tyme’s years of training in Dallas. It took a while to work that night off.

Read P-Tyme’s side.