My last relationship ended much like they all do – I had the graphic realization that I was dating a conniving whore, and things came tumbling down faster than a game of Jenga between two cerebral palsy patients. For one reason or another, I continually find myself in this situation with every girl I decide to become romantically involved with. I suppose one reason could be that all females are, indeed, manipulative, heartless, cum buckets. Bitter, you say? Me? Noo, never! Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter. But, much like the lime to a stiff shot of tequila, there is a foolproof remedy for the bitterness of a breakup. Finding yourself a suitable rebound girl/guy is the first step towards keeping your sanity and getting over that filthy, no good ex of yours. On this particular night, I was the mother fucking Dennis Rodman of rebound girls.
After the usual breakup banter, I stiffened my upper lip and acquired my antidote of choice: a bottle of merlot, which I decided I would single-handedly finish before sunset and see where the rest of the evening took me. After popping the cork and mixing a few anonymous narcotics with my vino, I was beginning to get sloppier than a threesome involving Lindsay Lohan, Courtney Love, and an 8-ball of blow.
About three-quarters of the way through my bottle, I took a swig and completely missed my mouth, sending a waterfall of red wine down my neck and onto my crisp white V-neck tee. Normally, something like this would throw me into a fit of rage, leading to the destruction of home furnishings and possibly ruining my night. However, when I went into the bathroom to change my shirt, what I discovered was a surefire sign from the Gods. Looking into the mirror, I saw that my spill had left a stain on my shirt in the shape of a nearly perfect exclamation point. Intoxicated and excited, I snapped a picture.
I knew I was truly fucked when Jack on the rocks was going down like apple juice on the rocks.
Now, far from angry and reaching a nearly perfect level of inebriation, I thought, “Fuck it, this is awesome, I’m not even going to bother changing my shirt.” I polished off the remainder of the wine, admired my miracle stain one more time, and stumbled out of the house to go meet up with some friends before heading out to the bar.
Upon my arrival, I was greeted by more booze and three scantily clad young women, none of which I was acquainted with, and none of which I would classify as strikingly attractive. I was quickly introduced by my friend and more than likely made a few inappropriate drunken comments.
Right off the bat, I realized I was heavily intoxicated and was probably going to make a bad decision with one, maybe even two of these girls. Luckily, one of the skanks made it easy for me when she started to eye-fuck me like there was some sort of twisted staring contest going on and began calling me “Stephen.” I told her my name was Ryan, but she insisted on Stephen, which, in a borderline blackout state, confused and angered me. Eventually, I realized I didn’t give a shit what she called me, because I had forgotten her name no more than three seconds after I was introduced to her. However, I would later find out that she was calling me Stephen because apparently, after ingesting enough alcohol, I bear a striking resemblance to that douche bag named Stephen (go figure) from Laguna Beach, one of the most putrid displays in the history of American television. Whatever, at least one good thing came out of that stupid fucking show.
After more unnecessary drinking, my mouth began leaking obscene phrases like a sieve as we made our way to the bar. Phrases such as “mmmm, I’ll ream you out like a drill sergeant,” and “come on baby, let me fist that ass” were a sign of where things were heading. When we got to the bar, drinks, as well as ridiculous verbiage, continued to flow. I knew I was truly fucked when Jack on the rocks was going down like apple juice on the rocks. In my drunken stupor, I started to actually respond to the name Stephen and began engaging in physical interaction with the Laguna Beach groupie. I was forcefully grabbing her ass, and at this point she could have been wearing a soiled diaper and I wouldn’t have recognized the difference. Right around this time, I blacked out. I’m pretty sure the public displays of affection were limited to me digging into her ass cheeks like I was kneading dough, but I really can neither confirm nor deny what happened.
Finally, my friends and the sexual predator managed to drag me out of the bar and into a cab. They put me in the front seat, and, after hanging my head out the window claiming I was the Joker and nearly clipping my cranium on a side view mirror, I was pulled back into the cab and immediately passed out. I woke up when we came to an abrupt stop outside of my friend’s place. Drunk and confused, it took me a minute to realize that my head was resting on the cab driver’s crotch for the entire 20 minute ride home, and I’m pretty sure I drooled a little bit. Why he didn’t wake me or, at the very least, move my head off his cock, baffles me. Anyway, I apologized for using his phallus as a pillow and started to make my way out of the cab when I felt a hand grab the back of my shirt collar.
I was forcefully grabbing her ass, and at this point she could have been wearing a soiled diaper and I wouldn’t have recognized the difference.
“No, Stephen, you’re coming with me!” I heard from the back seat of the cab.
“What? Huh? Where are we going?!” I asked, legitimately scared and puzzled. I desperately wanted to go home, and I tried really hard to fight off her kung fu grip and escape, but to no avail.
“We’re going to my house. Get back in here!” she said as she dragged me into the back seat, where I once again passed out instantly. I don’t know what was going through this girl’s head, but if she actually thought I was going to perform any type of pleasurable act, she was drunker than I was (which would have been an honorable feat, considering I was blacked out like Amistad).
We could have taken the cab another five blocks or driven half-way across the country and I wouldn’t have known any different. When we got to her place, she led me inside like a seeing eye dog and began to, hmm, what’s the word…? Oh yeah, rape me. I have a vague memory of her yelling, “Come on Stephen, fuck me like I’m LC!” and trying to ride my flaccid dong for about a half hour before getting really angry and giving up. I’m pretty sure I then rambled on about how I just broke things off with a girl I had been seeing and that my penis hadn’t adapted to the change yet. Or maybe I told her I was gay and perhaps if she grew her mustache just a tad longer I’d be a little more turned on. Whatever I said or did (besides the impotence) really pissed her off, and she started yelling and grunting like a fucking injured rhinoceros.
“Ahhhh! Grrrrrggggg! RAAAAA!!!”
As if things weren’t fucking weird enough, this girl apparently transformed into a Velociraptor after failed attempts at raping Laguna Beach look-a-likes. The oddest part was she wasn’t really even yelling at me. She was just lying in her bed, face down, throwing a tantrum. It was like The Exorcist, literally. I took her ear-piercing shrieks as a sign that I had overstayed my welcome, so I gathered my shit, making sure to grab my exclamation point T-shirt, and snuck out while she was still in the midst of a mental breakdown.
Once I was out of the room, I ran down the stairs and tried to remember where the front door was. I made a quick left and dipped into her living room to get dressed. I threw on my T-shirt and got an idea. I tossed my pants and shoes to the side, whipped out my love-sword, and began pissing on her white carpet. I steadied the stream and, with a reservoir worth of urine, crafted an exclamation point in the middle of the room. I admired my work for a minute, smiled, finished getting dressed, and went home, but not before putting the exclamation point on the night.