Monday, September 26, 2005

Choose your Wingman Wisely!

"So buy her beer, that's the reason you're here ... My wingman ...Wing-maaaaaaaaaaaannn"

If I had a dollar for every great story that came from being Wingman to my buddies and vice versa, I would be a millionaire by now; hence, this is Wingman Volume 1. Much like Kill Bill, the sequence of these will be disjointed and out of order, but it will still be entertaining. This particular event happened one night at Kep's Place in Washington.

Greg (or G3 or GCubed) is one of my best friends from College. We've been through thick and thin together. We've partied, chased tail, and done some very crazy shit together. After College, I settled down and got married ... Greg perfected his "game". We still talk almost daily and play volleyball together in the summer. My kids call him Uncle Greg. If there is anything I say about Greg is, I call him Peter Pan - not in the sick Michael Jackson sense - because he is still having fun and partying. Not ready to settle down yet and who could blame him. To each his own!

The reason for the introduction is I am very sure there will be future posts about stupid, scary, and even outright illegal things Greg and I have done. Good friends help you move; Best friends help you move bodies. So Greg comes in town one night when I have my daughter for the weekend. After a couple hours of wrestling with the kids - they love him to death - and giving my wife neck rubs - she loves him too because I won't fall for the "my neck hurts can you rub it" bit - we get the kids down for bed. Pam - my wife - throws in an old movie and tells us "have fun boys! If Reed pukes, I'm blaming you Greg!"

Off we go to Kep's Place, a nice bar here in Washington where I know most of the staff and the managers. On the way, there - all of a 2-minute drive - Greg tells me a "friend" of his (read "booty-call") will be joining him up at Kep's after 9:30. Cool by me. I have my drinking shoes on and a hankering for some pool. So we get there, he orders a pitcher of Miller Lite and now I know there is a problem. You see, Greg is the best guy in the world, but he hates Miller Lite. Despite all my efforts to change him, he loves that no taste, panther-piss we all know as Bud Light. So when Greg volunteers to buy a pitcher of Miller Lite, he's buying me off and I know it.

"So what's up?" I asked him smilling a shit-eating grin because I know what's coming.
"Well. She has a friend." He's pouring, won't even look at me. Oh god, this is going to be bad.
"So I'm wingman for the night. Do you realize I come here often? People know me?" I asked. "So she had at least be good looking because Pam is going to hear about it!"

We laughed. Pam has no problem with me running interference for Greg, she's very trusting of me and deservedly so. Plus, for god's sake, I am at Kep's. People know us both on a first name basis and - even if I was a player (still) which I am not - you don't SHIT WHERE YOU EAT. This is a lesson gentleman as I am spinning gold here. In a later post, I will give you some hard-learned lessons from my "playing" days about why you don't date 3 women at once and take them all to the same place you frequent ... but that story is for another day.

So Greg is like, "Well she said her friend might be bi."
"You have my complete attention." I am a big fan of the Lesbian culture. Love their work. From ex- girlfreinds who were bi, to the movie Wild Things, to several movies I cannot begin to name for fear the FCC will eventually use my blog as yet another place where they limit free speech.

"Well,” Greg continued, “that's the problem. She also said she's kinda butch. She just got out of the Air Force."
"Oh god bro, what are you getting me into?"

Cue the cell phone and they are just pulling up. In comes our first arrival, a "serviceable" girl with sandy blonde hair. I say "servicable" because I was already a pitcher into the night and she wasn't doing it for me. On scale of 1 to 12, she's definitely a 10-beer hookup. But oh, don't go away yet folks because not 2 mintues later in walks ... PAT!

Now, the girls name - and I really am throwing about that word ... GIRL - was both irrelevant and for this story IT was Pat. If you don't know who "Pat" is from the SNL skits, then you need to watch more god damn TV so get to work! She lumbers her way across the bar with a hitch more John Wayne than even KD Lang. Soon we are all talking and that is when the hilarity ensues. I am wingman, so I cannot ruin Greg's shot at getting hooked up. However, there isn't enough beer on God's green earth to get me to live up on this one. If people I know are going to see me with a woman who is more of a man than I am, it's not going to be at my favorite bar - it will be in a volleyball game or a co-ed, doubles kickboxing match.

We begin to make small talk but that is proving completely useless. The more Pat and her friend talk the more smart-ass things I have to say. I am trying not to turn into a dick because Greg is trying to get laid. All I can do though is just keep hearing the conversation and every little thing I have a comeback for because it was too funny. Take every lesbian stereotype you ever heard, roll it into one, and that is the woman sitting across from me. On top of that, her friend, Greg’s hookup we will refer to as (I don’t know) … StinkBait. She is not SURE if Pat is a lesbian. You know, death, taxes, and this broad is a lesbian are about the only things I am sure of.

With each passing syllable I become more giddy. Greg is trying to keep a straight face as we talk amongst each other because he knows that eventually something is going to slip out of my mouth. Much like my blogs, I have many opinions and don’t mind sharing them … especially after a few drinks.

Finally, Stinkbait and Pat need to use the restroom together. If they had waited any longer I would have pissed myself or exploded so much to say about topics like: Pat’s new full-size truck, why she doesn’t date, Stinkbait’s ex-boyfriend who did not like Pat, etc. Now all of this seems extremely mundane and even boring, but mix a little alcohol and some well timed jokes and it could have been a stellar night … had I wanted to ruin Greg’s chances of getting laid. The two run off or more like lumber in Pat’s case and I am left with Greg.

“Dude let’s just play some pool,” Greg half-asks me.
“No way, no how, no time.” I am laughing thankful for the break in the action. “Now Stinkbait thinks her friend MIGHT be bi?!? She MIGHT be??? That he-bitch could whoop both of our asses” – more laughter as people from the bar are now taking notice - “If I saw her in a dark alley I would throw my wallet and run. RUN FOR MY LIFE!”
Greg and I are now laughing pretty good, some of it the beer, a lot of it the night.
“Now be nice when they get back,” he implores.
“Dude, I have no choice. I cannot embarrass myself by taking a beating from a woman, seriously? There is no way you are not going to get laid. I mean, if Stinkbait is that stupid to not realize her best friends a carpet-munching, femi-nazi you have no excuse. Really, I will disown you.” More laughter to the left and right of us. I turn to see a couple of women who are MUCH better looking than Pat and Stinkbait. I believe they had … faces?

I turn to them. “Do you believe what he’s putting me through? Wingman to that!”
They are laughing now, Face #1 says, “You should really come join us.”
Turning to Greg “I agree whole-heartedly. I feel safe enough in my manhood to join them.” More laughter but Greg can’t. He’s stuck because he’s in the age-old predicament. A bush in hand is worth more than two at the bar you haven’t met yet.
“No bro. C’mon we’ll all go play pool when they get back.”
“Not me but don’t worry.” Turning to Face 1 & 2, “Can you all pretend like you’ve known me for awhile. I have to get out of this.”
Face #2 smiles and nods, “No problem, we get it.”

I sit and make small talk as we wait for the gruesome twosome to return.

Greg’s turn to talk as he addresses the two and says “Let’s go play some pool.”

The two quickly agree and he begins the chore of packing up the stuff we have sitting at the bar: cell phones, glasses, pitcher, coats, etc. It was Greg who takes the blame for the calamity that ensued. He had to say something to me. If he had merely left it alone, I would have sat peacefully by and made small talk with my two new friends.

“You want to play pool bro?” he asked knowing DAMN WELL I most certainly did not.
“No thanks man I am just going to get caught up with these two.” I try to dismiss it.
“Suit yourself man.,” he replies as he turns to the twosome. “Do you guys got everything? Beers, purses?”
And that’s when it happened. There are moments of greatness that you dream about when you are a smart ass, and the time was nearly upon me.
“No, I don’t carry a purse,” shot back Pat … Warning! Warning! Vintage Reed in 3-2-1 …
“Why? Because it bangs into your balls everywhere you walk?”

Stunned silence. I don’t think I could have gotten a more shocking reaction if I had dropped my pants and shat myself in the middle of the dance floor (which I understand is not uncommon for some Canadians – howdy Gina!). Greg looked at me as if I had just run over his puppy. Pat and Stinkbait shared a look of shock and disbelief … and then the bar – those within ear shot including my new friends – erupted in laughter. Greg fought back a smile and Pat and Stinkbait stormed off to the pool tables luckily for Greg.

Choking back tears of laughter, Greg couldn’t help but lament. “Thanks dick, now it’s gonna be real fun trying to do damage control.”

“Fuck it! Just tell’em I’m drunk. It’s not like your lying.”

The rest of the night I chatted with the girls at the bar and a couple of buddies who came in later. It was a good night all-in-all. Greg got laid and – more importantly – I retained my dignity and my special little place in hell …

The end.


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