Everything was going my way.
Every time you pre-game for an hour by yourself, an hour with your roommates, then two hours at a bar before getting to the club, you’re walking a tightrope between being a champion and throwing up on the waitresses’ shoes. But on this night I had inexplicably reached the recently illusive perfect drunkeness.
Not only was I perfectly drunk, I was grinding (front to back to dancing) with the girl I had been investing some serious time in class talking to. This girl was super cool, and had grade A boobies and a cute face (very talented girl). It was almost too much for me to handle when the DJ dropped Last Nite by The Strokes.
Big boobs, flowing alcohol, and The Strokes, all three legs of the Good Time Tri-pod.
Then a slight problem presented itself. Little Mike didn’t get the word that we were playing it cool with this girl and got harder than 400 level Spanish. I’m not sure if it was the girl or the music that caused the boner but either way something had to be done about it.
Usually I wouldn’t sweat this kind of situation, as Michael Cera mentions in Superbad, boners are something that should be embraced. But this time I didn’t want to take a chance that this particular girl wasn’t game to be hot-dogged by my boner on a packed dance floor.
After trying to calm down by thinking of my friend Jack serving ice cream on a sunny day at Pier 39 failed, I knew drastic measures had to be taken. She was obviously starting to notice as she would frequently stop dancing and adjust to avoid Little Mike. Like Obama when his teleprompter shuts down, I had to think quickly and I ended up heading to the bathroom. I would piss away the boner.
God Damnet Mike, You’re a Genius
Her laughter when I told her I had to go “make pee-pee” meant I was definitely in. Better yet she followed me to the bathroom and wanted to wait outside.
She laughed at the most immature joke in your arsenal, and she wants to wait while you empty your boner, no way even you can fuck this one up, Mike
There were only five kids in the usually packed bathroom which had two urinals and one stall in it. The urinals were being used by guys with the other three posting by the sink. I got in line behind one of the dudes (cause only girls use stalls) and waited.
Given my less than stellar attention span I was fiddling with my featureless phone when I felt a dampness creep down my leg.
Noo wayy did I just get pee’d on?
I looked up to see the guy who had been pissing in the stall in front of me now holding his cock in my direction, the main flow having subsided but droplets still spattering out. Next I did the only thing there was to do and asked him politely if he had just urinated on my leg? Surely there had been some kind of mix-up.
“FUCK YES I DID AND WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT PUSSY?!!”
His lack of creativity in choice insults and his unprovoked douchary pointed to one absolute truth, this guy was a bully. He had come to the club for one reason, to fuck with people smaller than himself. On this particular night he had chosen me.
He chose well as I’d recently curbed my eating (I’ve never liked food anyways) in favor of cab rides and 4 euro vodka fifths, and consequently weighed only around 150lbs at the time. This dude was easily 190 and had a few inches on me.
“I SAID WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT MOTHER FUCKER??!”
I was still in shock as it had been a few weeks since I’d been pissed on, and I began to run through the different options in my head.
1. Punch him once in the face hard, hope he gets disoriented and bolt
2. Go for legs, mount the bitch and hope it gets broken up
3. Take high road, leave the idiot be, and go dance with the hot girl who for some reason was into you enough to be at that moment waiting outside the bathroom, maybe make sex with her later
I don’t know what came over me, call it being a pussy, or not being properly fucked up, but the angel on my shoulder won and I made my way toward the exit.
Mike, that was a very rational decision. Now you have an intact face, and the idiot doesn’t win. Sure your pants are a little damp but she won’t notice, I’m really proud of…WAIT…DON’T MIKE YOU FUCKING IDIOT
I had made a 180 and was now standing face to face with pisser, who was glad to see me back. I was giving him the attention his mother who never held him as a child had failed to deliver.
This made him happy.
He started to say something and before he could get it out I hawked a monstrous loogie into his face. This thing was huge, thick, green, and it splattered all over his upper lip and nose. If you didn’t know better you’d think an alien had bled all over him.
I followed with an upper cut that caught him in the jaw, and he stumbled backwards into the urinal behind him.
So good prevails, evil suffers, and Mike goes home and fucks the hot girl while recounting his triumphant story to help her climax, right?
No, not right.
What I had failed to notice in my drunken state was how interested the other four guys in the bathroom were as the situation progressed. Almost like they were his friends.
They were his friends.
Right as I turned around to walk triumphantly to the loving arms of my “babe,” I felt a sharp pain in the back of my head, then my ribs, then my ribs again, then my stomach, then my ear.
The four other dudes, who were also inconveniently well-built, had started beating the fuck out of me. This lasted for about thirty seconds as I tried to cover up and dodge hay-makers. My lady friend had now caught on to what was going on and yelled for them to stop which helped immensely.
Finally in what seemed like a Lord of the Rings Return of the King period of time, but was probably only 20-30 seconds, a few good Samaritans who were held as children came to my aid and pulled the bastards off of me.
I did the whole compulsory post-beating “I’m gonna beat the fuck out of those guys” song and dance, but finally settled down once the guy who saved me offered to buy me drinks at the bar. After a few shots I realized how backwards it was that he was the one buying me drinks given how he had saved my life and all, so I reciprocated with a few rounds.
That was my last even somewhat clear memory before I can recount walking alone back to my apartment with no money, no girl, lumps all over my head and bruises on my ribs.
My roommates would later tell me that after my berage of shots I waited in front of the club for the dude and his friends for what I had been excitedly calling, “The Final Showdown.” Even the girl who I had danced with inviting me to a post-game at her friends’ apartment couldn’t persuade me to leave my post. Cops could though, and after threatening me I went on my way.