When you think of great partners in history, the following names come to mind: Abbott and Costello, Bonnie and Clyde, Tom and Jerry, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis, etc… Now when you think of great wingmen, the following names come to mind: Maverick and Goose (Top Gun), Johnny Drama and Turtle (Entourage), Vince Vaughn and John Favreau (Swingers), etc… Forgive me if I have overlooked anyone.
With all the great duos out there, you would think it to be hard to break into this category and become one of the greatest wingmen to ever live. But I must admit that yours truly has done it again, and defied all naysayers – I have added myself to the list of all-time great wingmen.
The day started out with us having an early breakfast which included Bloody Marys, a seafood omelet, eggs Benedict, and eggs scrambled. We were filling up our bellies for the day’s activities, which included tailgating and college football. Basically, we were heading downtown to celebrate college football and our love of drinking.
The group consisted of myself, Bert, Macavelli, and Otis O’Flannigan. We had tickets to the Pitt football game but we were one ticket short – Macavelli had made a surprise appearance from New York, so we were in need of another Pitt ticket. Personally, I wasn’t concerned about the game because I knew there would be plenty of free beer to occupy my time if I were denied access. Tailgating is one of the few situations in which it is OK to get lost. Like a crying child wandering the mall, you’ll be nursed by some generous soul with free beer and helped to find your mommy, or group, once again. However, I do not suggest crying into a set of breasts at this age, especially if they belong to a stranger with a big boyfriend.
We made it to the game but were unsuccessful at obtaining another ticket. Sure, there were plenty of scalpers with extra tickets, but none of them had the kind of ticket we needed, a free one. I told Bert our effort was futile because scalpers would rather see the tickets go to waste than see me have a good time at their expense. I told Bert to hand me the tickets and I walked towards the first group of scalpers. If anything, we could sell our two tickets for beer money for the bar.
“How much will you give me for these two tickets?”
“I’ll give you ten bucks,” said an African-American gentleman who stood with a large lump of money in his hand. For a moment I thought of pulling the old “Cops!” to distract him long enough for me to snatch the wad and make for the nearest watering hole, but he was skinnier than me and I was in the process of working off the previous night’s booze. I didn’t think I would make the nearest port-o-johns, let alone the nearest bar, so I decided to reason with the man.
“You have got to be shitting me! These are 24 dollar tickets, each.”
We were in the middle of negotiating when another gentleman pushed through the crowd with his wheelchair and yelled from below, “Watcha got!”
“I have two tickets.”
“I’ll give you ten dollars for both,” he said, not realizing distance was the only thing that saved his wheelchair from my foot, thus causing him to spiral uncontrollably into the crowd of spectators making their way towards the stadium.
The first scalper interjected, “I’ll give you fifteen for both. Those tickets aren’t worth shit. They are upper level seats.”
I thought for a second or two. “OK. It’s a deal,” and I watched as he flipped through twenties searching for a ten. The thought crossed my mind that even the city scalpers are earning a better living than me. I thought of asking him for an job application, but my friends arrived and ushered me away.
“He only gave us fifteen,” I said.
“What! Those seats are on the fifty,” Bert said.
“Well the man said the tickets aren’t worth shit,” I explained as Bert turned to give the scalper an evil stare. I thought about explaining how the man must know good seats from shitty seats because of his large sum of money, but I decided to let it pass. I handed Bert the fifteen as we made our way to the car, which we had illegally parked at my brother’s apartment so we could park for free.
Cut to: Nine hours and three games later. Middle of a sushi restaurant.
Otis O’Flannigan had managed to lose his phone a few times, each time with me hiding it until he panicked and I returned it. He couldn’t keep a six-inch device in his pocket (not his penis) but somehow he managed to make his way towards a group of girls. I believe there were four or five brunettes and two blondes, all very attractive. I watched from a distance as he talked to the girls, just to make sure no one slapped him in the face or kicked him in the privates. I like to think of him as my girl scout. Not the little kind with cookies but the scout who walks ahead and checks for land mines and things of that nature, like hostile women who can bring harm to a defenseless drunk.
After a few minutes I noticed a couple of the girls smiling. I figured this to be my cue to step in and provide them with some additional entertainment.
“Chad, what’s up?” said Otis O’Flannigan as I approached.
“Wow!” said one of the brunettes, and whispered to her blonde friend. Her blonde friend whispered back and turned to me.
“It’s nothing bad. It’s just that you look exactly like my husband,” she said.
“You’re one lucky girl,” I responded. The blonde stared with a smirk and eventually laughed.
We made small talk for the next twenty minutes or so and I found that 60% of the women in the group were married and only in their late twenties. I talked about how crazy it is to be married at such a young age and how I thought two or three of them would most likely be divorced in the next five years or so. They laughed at my comment because I said it in a joking way, but half of me honestly believes what I said to be true.
“Listen,” I said to the blonde who could have been my wife (being that her husband supposedly looked just like me). “I have a girlfriend and you are married, but my boy Otis O’Flannigan is single. Do you think any of your friends are interested in Otis there?” I said, pointing towards Otis, who talked while tapping at his pockets. I assumed he was searching for the cell phone resting in my back pocket.
I decided to bring all the women into the conversation. I interrupted Otis in mid-sentence.
“OK, ladies. Are any of you planning to sleep with my boy, Otis?”
The group grew quiet as they took it in. I am not quite sure if they were offended, or completely bedazzled by what a great wingman Otis had on his side. Not one girl answered, but I barely gave them time.
“OK! Then we’re out of here,” I said, and walked towards the exit. I turned to look towards my friends, who remained dumbfounded and seated. I motioned towards the door. They paid the bill and followed me out of the bar.
“Wow! You are an idiot,” Bert said.
“That was terrible,” said Otis.
“Not the best move,” said Macavelli.
“Listen. The night is coming to a close and we can’t be wasting our time. I just saved you a ton of effort. Now we can focus on a different group of girls for you,” I explained.
“Even if I had a chance with any of those girls they aren’t going to openly admit it,” Otis said.
“I’ve had girls tell me they wanted to sleep with me within the first ten minutes of a conversation,” I said.
“The Dominican whorehouse doesn’t count. Just let me do it on my own,” Otis said.
“OK, it’s a deal.”
This promise lasted only ten minutes, as I tried the same approach with the next group of girls at the next bar.
Cut to: My apartment the next morning. I’m sitting on instant messenger.
Otis: Your pick-up line was terrible.
Me: It could use some work.
Otis: So am I your guinea pig?
Me: Yes. I’m working on something for next weekend.Powered by Sidelines