Tag Archives: alcohol

Rockstars are Overrated

22 May

This wasn’t the proudest moment of my life. The bar I was working at got struck by lightning and burned down. Yeah, that actually happened. Needless to say, I was living off the McDonald’s Dollar Menu and scraping change out of my broken futon to support my alcohol addiction.

My crazy cokehead coworker, who was an even bigger mess than I was, got me a job bartending the happy hour shift deep in the depths of hell. We’re talkin’ a bar straight outta the movie From Dusk till Dawn only instead of vampires, I was left to fend off old men, toothless crackheads and the swinger couple who tried absolutely everything to take me home with them. I would work four hours, have like 3 customers and make more drinks for myself than anyone else. By 8pm I would stumble out of there rip-roaring, shitballs drunk just in time for the ultimate motorcycle mama to take over all of the tabs I started, and collect the remainder of my tips.

Friday nights were actually fairly busy at Hogs n’ Heffers Heaven, and nothing could beat the nights when they had a cover band. On this particular night, it was a good one. Bossman was spending the big bucks. He asked Cokeslore and I to hang around in case Motorcycle Mama couldn’t hack it. I knew that bitch would never share her tips with us, but I didn’t care because we were getting paid to drink for free.

My happy hour shift had been busier than usual, and all I heard the entire shift was that the lead singer was hot and looked just like Derek Jeter. I brushed it off because let’s face it, these broads probably would have thought Big Foot was sexy if he came sauntering in on a Saturday night. They weren’t exactly the most credible sources. Plus, I’m more of an A-Rod kind of girl, anyway.

However, these hags weren’t kidding. With his tan skin, icy blue eyes and backwards Yankees hat, “DJ” looked just like the Yankees shortstop, except he didn’t have that horrendous flat top haircut. He was HOTTT, and he knew it. So I did what I do best, I ignored him.

It turned out to be a packed house, and the thugs, bikers and crackheads were actually getting along. Cokeslore and I were having a grand old time slugging vodka, shaking our asses and watching every girl at the bar throw herself at the lead singer. I felt his eyes burning into me, but I just assumed it was part of his act to eye fuck every girl in the bar. He either saw me as a challenge or a safe place because I wasn’t giving him the time of day.

It was nearing the end of the night, and the band started to play Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel,” which was probably the most popular song on the radio at the time. Tell me why DJ broke through the sea of vaginas to drag me from the bar back to his mock-stage. He proceeded to serenade me in front of everyone! At the time, it was embarrassingly sexy. His voice. Being serenaded. The jealous looks of everyone else in the bar. OMG. Not to mention, the lead singer of a band is at the very top of my “Fuck-It List.”

As I look back on it now, the song is about cheating on his girlfriend with some hot broad with angelic lips. So romantical. But of course, that’s my life. After the show was over, DJ, his band, Cokeslore and I conversated over some cocktails before we moved on to an afterparty, and the band went to tend to some leftover groupies. I definitely didn’t give DJ my number, as a matter of fact, I’m not sure that I even told him my name. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d figure it out.

I woke up the next afternoon to a brutal hangover and a Myspace message from DJ. Yes, Myspace was super cool back then, and no, I still to this day have no idea how he found me. #Stalkerstatus. I’m not gunna lie though- I was souped. This guy was hot, he could sing and he was stalking my social networks to see me again. So I brushed my shoulders off, and made plans to meet him for drinks.

The first night we met for drinks was a bit of a drunken blur. We drank, A LOT. Then we made out, A LOT. We talked mostly about his band, which was cool I guess. We texted back and forth, and met for drinks a couple more times. He invited me to his shows, but I declined because I found it weird to watch a bunch of girls throw themselves at him.

One night, DJ took me to dinner. I knew this would be the night that I gave it up. He opened doors and pulled out my chair, but that’s about where everything took a turn for the worst. He decided to order for me while I was in the bathroom, and I definitely didn’t tell him what I wanted to eat. Then, since this was the first time I was totally sober, I realized that all he talked about was himself. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Every time I tried to join the conversation, he’d interrupt me with another story about how awesome he was. Because not only did he selfishly talk about himself the ENTIRE night, but he talked about how GREAT he was the entire night. It was nauseating.

I wanted to cross this one off my Fuck-It List, so I had my eyes on the prize. I downed a couple of drinks, and it was finally time to go back to my place.

I made sure my roommate wouldn’t be home, so we wasted no time getting to business. We burst through the door kissing furiously, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other through the kitchen, and by the time we got to my bedroom, we were ripping each other’s clothes off.

That’s when I realized that Mr. Rockstar’s obsession with himself extended into the bedroom. Let’s just say Oz saying “Suck me beautiful,” in American Pie would’ve been a billion times sexier than how DJ tried to get me in the mood.

I was already having my doubts when I saw it. His baby dick, or lack there of one. Size isn’t something that typically matters to me, especially in the heat of the moment, but this thing was SCARY. I was contemplating whether it could possibly be inverted, when I decided there was no way in hell I was going through with this.

I did what any rational girl in my situation would do- I played drunk. I told him I was way too drunk and he needed to get out. NOW. I threw his jeans at him, pushed him out the front door, waited 5 minutes and left to meet my roommate for drinks. DJ and I never spoke again.

The moral of this story is not that if you have a shrimpy schlong you will get kicked out of a girl’s bed the minute you let her see it. It’s that a person like that is never going to love anyone as much as they love themselves. Rockstars are used to the instant gratification of women throwing themselves at them night after night. They don’t need to worry or care if they are getting you off, because it’s on to the next one tomorrow. And, chances are their love of that giant microphone pole is overcompensation for what they’re lacking in their pants.

 

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