Thursday, April 30, 2009
My first time was at a birthday party in 8th grade. I showed up at the party after having gone to see the movie "Howard Stern's Private Parts" and frankly I felt like a badass mother shut your mouth! We were drinking Boone's Farm or Mad Dog 20/20. I can tell you for sure I had a Newport or 2, thank Christ I couldn’t inhale Newark Airport’s finest.
To make a long story short, I was standing there in this girl’s backyard wearing an oversized Michigan Wolverines sweatshirt with Jenco jeans, singing along to “I’ll Be Missing You” by Puff Daddy, when all of a sudden I heard screaming and saw people running for their fucking lives. Having no Darwinian survival instinct, I ran into the house from where they were coming and realized that the host’s couch was on fire and none of the degenerate assholes was doing anything about it. Finally, one of the trashy, predatory high school sophomores who had been hitting on me a half an hour earlier put it out. He was both a gentleman and a scholar and we would later "go with each other" for 5 1/2 minutes.
About fifteen minutes later after "Backdraft," I shit you not, there was screaming again! I ran outside this time and as it turns out, the strange Turkish girl that no one liked had fallen through this girl’s trampoline, breaking it, hitting her ass against the concrete. To make it worse, apparently the fall had jostled something in her because bitch had peed herself and was refusing to stand up because people would see. Ahh the pure elegance of 8th grade.
Editor’s Note: In looking for this picture, I found out that there is an internet fan club for Boone’s Farm. Here’s the link, you know you have a testimonial or 7 to write:
This story comes from Katherine from Staten Island, New York. Statty in the House!
"This past weekend my friends and I came into the City to go out for the night. After a couple of bars, we ended up at this NYU bar in the East Village because a girlfriend of mine had to use the restroom.
The basement, where the bathroom was located, looked exactly like a scene from 'Hostel.' It was wicked awful, lights were flickering, the floor was wet and people had on outfits from Strawberry. To make a long story short, some spiky haired asshole (from Long Island obvs) was guarding the men’s bathroom. I thought these kids were doing drugs, but all of a sudden I saw a small Asian kid who looked like a hedge-fund version of Data from 'The Goonies' run down the stairs yelling 'I gotta take a shit!!!! I can’t hold it anymore.' At this point, his spiky haired friend said 'Yo, I got this, the coast is clear, do it now, no one is in there!' and the kid responded with 'No fucking way, I don’t go in public. I got to go home to my house.' Data then stood drunkenly on the steps for ten minutes, waiting for someone to help him. It was at this moment I was so glad I took the advice of the drunken asshole outside who had looked me in the face and said 'this place is AWESOME!!!!!!'
Finally, Data ran up the steps holding his stomach, while his lady friends came out of the basement dancehall section being like 'Where’s he going? Charlieeeeee, where the hell is he going? He is too drunk, what happened, why is everyone outside the bathroom?' In Data’s defense, I wouldn’t have gone in that bathroom either. I would be scared Jigsaw or a rat might bite my ass in the middle, but man was it funny."
Thanks for the submission Katherine!
Please send any funny stories, pics, or drunk texts to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
So I was taking the train home the other night when a mildly drunk woman in her 40s sat down next to me. Apparently she had a case of the sniffles, and decided to take off her hoodie and use it to blow her nose. (I'm not taking about using the sleeve, or the outer part, she opened it up and used the inside of it. Maybe the material was softer?) Well, about 2 minutes later, what with the air conditioning on the subway being on full-blast, I guess she got chilly. I think you know what happened next, bitch actually put the hoodie on. See any drunk idiots on the subway? Been a drunk idiot on the subway? Send your stories and pics to email@example.com.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The rumors are true! And by rumors, I mean what I am telling you right now. We have a facebook group! It is cleverly named Weekend Douche and you should totally join it. Because you like us and because we are nice. P.S. Mark Zuckerberg, I am sorry we lifted your logo above and do not have rights to it. Now you know what those busty 15 yr old girls drinking smirnoff lights in pics. must have felt like when you threatened to use their shit without permission. MARK, you creep.
A few months ago I went to a professional networking event with Harvey's Mom and LGMBB, which would have been comedy without this douchy incident occurring. We had literally been there for 88 seconds after getting our first drink when a gentleman approached us. He was a little overly enthusiastic and one of those kids that is nice but just painful to talk to. However, my friends and myself are nice people so we let him engage us in conversation. After the usual five minutes of exchanging biographical info, he looked at myself and LGMBB and said "Have you guys ever heard of the friendship test?" Choking back laughter, I shook my head no. He said "Would you guys ever share tooth paste?" Through laughter, we both nodded yes. He said that we were true friends, not because we had the same answer but because we looked at each other before answering.
What this well meaning douche didn't realize is that LGMBB and I looked at each other because we watched the show "The Pickup Artist" and read the book "The Game," which is word for word where the friendship test came from, as a method for picking up women. Hopefully men will realize that women do sometimes read male-oriented material and that in fact, pulling a quarter out of our ear would be more impressive.
Editors Note- Two weeks later another line from "The Game" was used on Nora at a bar in the East Village. She is starting to think there is something about her that screams bumpkin.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Here's To The Nights We Felt Alive - A Vignette - Featuring Paul the Heterosexual Drag Queen and the Park Slope Strangler
Have you ever had one of those nights where random, insane things happened one after the other, with the next event being stranger than the last? Upon returning from Manhattan after bar crawling one crisp autumn night with Nora Diniro, Ladies and Gentlemen Mr. Burt Bacharach and I decided, foolishly, that the night was still young (even though it was well after midnight). As my palate reaches the height of sophistication when I am tipsy, I declared that I could not continue drinking until I went to the deli and got a BLT with American cheese and ranch dressing on it. I opted to indulge while sitting on a random stoop on the southside of Williamsburg as LGMBB smoked cigarettes and drank a ginger ale.
While I marveled at the deliciousness of my sandwich, a kindly, tall, rather stout 40-something drag queen named Paul approached us and said hello. Apparently his friends had tied him up and left him at a fetish party, so he was looking for new soul sisters and brothers. He wanted to know everything about us, but decided that he would try to guess before we told him about our lives and loves. He thought that LGMBB was a lawyer or a teacher, while I was a paralegal or a cop. His clear (and totally on-the-money) psychic abilities not-withstanding, he joined us for part of the walk to our next destination, the Levee. (Editor's note: if you ever need a little bit of shit-show in your life, the Levee is the place to find it.) While we were parting ways, Paul decided to strike some poses, and asked me to take his photo on my phone and send it to him. I was too drunk to realize that this was a ploy to get my number, but I learned the hard way as he called me all that week, and even two months after this special evening. He may not have been my dream date but he was, truthfully, a sweetheart.
Once at the Levee, I opted for a house cocktail, the Gatorita, something of a Gatorade/margarita concoction, because electrolytes and tequila go so very well together. While at the bar, LGMBB met a piece of fine-as-hell man candy and bonded quickly with him. When they went out to smoke and whisper a few sweet nothings in each other's ears, I greatly amused myself by playing Connect 4 at the bar, and remembered that I had read somewhere that Beyonce was a Connect 4 champion. I alas was not able to channel my inner Beyonce while playing against myself. After a bit, or it may have only been 5 minutes as when I'm drunk I have no perception of time, I went to look out the window to make sure that LGMBB was okay. Everything seemed to be kosher, or so I thought. Not long after I returned to my brain-busting game, LGMBB found me, and uttered two sentences that will go down in the annals of history: "He likes to choke women when he has sex. We need to go."
We left the bar, but just outside the exit the Park Slope Strangler stopped LGMBB and me, trying to explain to us that this was normal and healthy, that he just likes to experiment and that he wanted to be honest about his deepest desires, as he could really see a future with LGMBB. Because we were not easily persuaded, he decided to put together a panel of experts, a.k.a. hipsters, assembling what I like to call the Williamsburg Town Hall meeting. Among those concerned citizens weighing in were some sweet girls horrified at the Strangler's propositions, as well as a rogue Australian with a heart the size of his continent. I took a breather as the meeting got into full swing, and sat down on the stoop near the bouncer (who resembles a Nelson brother circa 1990 and could be the love of my life). A strapping young man, most likely in the 19-22 age range (let's just say I'm older than that), was so very concerned that I was chilled by the first frost of autumn that he offered to make out, which I happily did. I remember overhearing the Strangler asking LGMBB, "Is that your friend hooking up? That was quick."
The Town Hall Meeting soon came to a close, as the Strangler just could not make a solid case for his perversion, and the kid I was making out with was so drunk he didn't know where he was. LGMBB and I waltzed into the sunrise, safe and sound, watched over by the Australian peddling close by on his bicycle.
Surprisingly we are still allowed to drink at the Levee. That can't last for very long.
Please leave your caption suggestions in the comments. The winner will be announced 5/1/09.
Got any pic suggestions? Send them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Friday, April 24, 2009
This is a hilarious drunk text sent to us from a reader who hails from New York, New York:
"I know this is a little random, but remember those ATM commercials from the 90s with kids running around in India yelling ATMMMMMMM? They were pretty clever"
Sent or received any hilarious drunken texts? Please send them to us at email@example.com.
Ellen Degeneres tries to get Lindsay to take a break from being a Weekend Douche ... Lindsay doesn't take the hint - Dlisted
Coachella: Weekend Douche Heaven - Gawker
Is there a double standard for women when it comes to drinking? Lily Allen says yes - Jezebel
Alcohol apparently brings out the bisexual in Michelle Rodriguez - Perez Hilton
At "Alcoholic Architecture," you can stand around a breathe in gin they pump into the air, since, you know, sipping and swallowing is such a hassle - Dlisted
Any douche news catch your eye this week? Send the juice to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
I am going to treat you all to an epic that happened a couple of years ago at Harvey’s Mom’s birthday party. This is the greatest motherfucking story ever told. Prepare.
H&M decided to have her birthday at an Irish pub in Manhattan. There was pre-gaming, a little grab-ass, a credit card check or two (meaning the ass swipe, not the actual calling of Visa), but H&M didn’t seem that trashed. This would change immediately upon arrival.
Everyone, that is everyone, was there, this meaning the people we are friends with because they are everyone we know. Then I heard H&M say something along the lines of “I love you so much, no seriously though, I love you, you are fucking awesome.” This is code for I am fucking smashed and need to stick the long middle one down my throat real quick, then treat myself to some skank pizza, maybe even another drink and Bed Bath & Beyond if I have time.
Next, H&M needed to go to the bathroom. I volunteered my assistance. It was halfway down the steps when I was told something like “I’m not going to fucking make it. What the fuck is this line all about? I’m not waiting in this shit!” We shamelessly walked into the men’s room. As H&M dropped to her knees in a stall, I had to stand there with my arms crossed, awkwardly waving at the males in the house. Then, the most beautiful Irish bartender ever walked in. As I watched him urinate with just blatant disregard for social norms, such as apologizing for pulling his wang out in front of a lady (if one could call me that), I not only became enchanted but also relatively convinced he was indeed my destiny. This moment would be ruined.
As he and I started speaking, while I imagined telling my children the story of how I met their father, he looked at me and made a comment about H&M’s drinking and how she must not be Irish. At this point, she told him to “go fuck himself.” She then followed with a line that would go down in history. She said “My name is Erin O’Connor. It doesn’t get any more fucking Irish than that.” He looked at me confused, his eyes sort of relaying the message of “you also must be a nasty drunk fuck, but instead you are cleverly hiding your true nature behind that turquoise top and the Miller High Life in your hand.” As he started to back up and leave, H&M let out a guttural “Fuck You, I AM GERMAN.” No one is really sure what the point of that one was.
H&M was carried into a cab and arrived safely at home as I walked the streets of the East Village alone, on my way to check in on her. Upon meeting again, I am pretty sure I tried to get her to eat both a piece of chicken and olive pizza and “Lobster XTREMES” from T.G.I.F. to no avail.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Weekend in Review
I just wanted to let everyone know the answers to the two questions that were on everyone’s minds. 1.) Harvey’s Mom did not go on the mechanical bull drunk this weekend. We didn’t make it to the Lower East Side because we had to do field work. You’re welcome. There was also an excuse mentioned about having no pants. I will leave that alone. Soon, very soon, it will happen and there will be pics. Naughty ones.
2.) Yes, we did go to San Loco!! H &M tried to get a sangria for both of us, I had to stop her. No, I did not eat the paper on the taco but instead ordered a catfish burrito, none of which I ate. I also threw up several times on the street afterward. P.S. San Loco is now serving brunch!! This way you can drink and vomit first thing in the morning. Tell them the drunken girl with puke on her jeans sent you!
Monday, April 20, 2009
What the hell happened with Cheaters? It was the best show ever. Once this site blows up, I am using all the money I make to produce a new season. I am getting sick of the syndication on Spike TV. It feels so cheap. Here's a pretty good video:
Please leave your caption suggestions in the comments. The winner will be announced 4/17/09.
Got any pic suggestions? Send them to us at email@example.com.
Friday, April 17, 2009
This text comes to us from an anonymous reader in Bushwick, Brooklyn.
"I would love to come over later and play with the meat and 2 veg, but facebook friending seems too intimate."
Thanks for the submission!
Sent or received any hilarious drunk texts? Send them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Any douche news catch your eye this week? Send the juice to email@example.com.
And the winner is...
"Turn that camera off and I will tell you a story about David Chokachi that will make your balls shrink to the size of raisins."
Victory is yours, Fanny Pack. Take this opportunity to do a little fist pump into the air while sitting at your computer, like so:
Thanks to everyone who submitted captions!!!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
A few weekends back, Harvey's Mom and I got pretty hammered. While at the bar, Harvey's Mom drank 5 caipirinhas within a one hour time slot. I had drank a bit too much rum earlier in the evening and decided to go outside for a breather. While trying to go back inside the bar, I was stopped by the bouncer who said to me in a smooth-like-butter Jamaican accented voice “As much as I like you, you need some air. Why don’t you sit on my stool for a little while and when you calm down, I will let you back in.” He and I had already established our soul kinship earlier when he let us in even though there was a huge line and we were told that was it for the night. Please, it will take more than that to stop this rock. (Speaking of which, I used to have an Aerosmith concert t-shirt for which that was the theme. It was so trashy, it was everything!)
I was let back in as Harvey's Mom came stumbling out, so we just decided to head home. It took us about 5 ½ hours to walk 6 blocks. Earlier in the night, it was joked that we might make an appearance at San Loco. The thing with San Loco is that I can’t actually eat it if I am sober. In fact, I have often thought that if I wanted to moonlight as a bulimic, I would only have to eat a taco from San Loco once a day. As we headed to San Loco, Harvey's Mom was bobbing and weaving as she walked. I, of course, decided I was not drunk, which clearly wasn’t the case.
When 10 ft. away from our destination, Harvey's Mom proclaimed “I can’t walk in these fucking shoes!!!” at which point, a hipster on the street replied “I know how that is," with Harvey's Mom then saying “Right? It fucking sucks!” Finally, we entered and ordered, me stopping Harvey's Mom from getting a Sangria. After eating a burrito and a taco respectively (of which I am pretty sure I actually ate the wrapping paper while it was still on like those kids who eat dirt and Play Doh), we left to walk the 4 blocks home. This took about 35 minutes. At one point, Harvey's Mom started going up a ramp into a store for no reason, while saying “I’m fine, I swear I’m fine.”
Upon reaching my apartment, I walked upstairs and told Nora Diniro that Harvey's Mom would be staying over. I announced “Harvey's Mom is trashed” and then fell back into the wall, which cushioned my fall. The next day I felt like 10 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag, but let me tell you, it was worth it for the story.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
This is a friendly reminder that the winner of this week's Caption Contest will be announced on Friday. Please keep sending in your comments, it ain't over till we say it is over, and frankly, we run the site so that could be "whenever." Also, the winner of this week's contest will be treated to having their laundry done by commenter Number797979. That was the barter to prevent the filing of the second restraining order. Do it up Weekend at Bernie's, you have other people on your tail!
From an anonymous reader in Williamsburg, Brooklyn:
"Did u tell Charlie to toss your salad?? I think he's very flattered"
We would be too! Thanks for your submission!
Sent or received any hilarious drunk texts? Send them to us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Two weekends ago, fueled only with a $5 bill and a dream, Harvey's Mom and I went out to do some hard-hitting citizen journalism, which involved drinking too much and H&M trying to go on a mechanical bull. Sadly, the dream was shattered by too many douches in line.
This Saturday, Nora, H&M and myself are once again venturing out to do "field work" and we hope we can make a reality where "wings take dream." Much like the clapping that saved Tinker Bell, if you drink enough 40s (Olde English or Colt 45 only, keep it classy), maybe we can get H&M to ride the mechanical bull!!
P.S. - Professional Bull Riding is abbreviated PBR. Coincidence? I think not.
"This year for St. Patrick's Day, my brother got drunk with his friends and decided it would be a great idea to go get tattoos. The next morning, as I was getting ready to go to work, I got an e-mail from him with the subject line 'Best Tattoo Ever.' The body of that e-mail is the picture I'm sending to you. I'm sure it'll be in your hall of fame."
Consider your brother the first member of our Weekend Douche Hall of Fame. Thanks for your submission!
This story was told to me by my grandmother, and it was told to her by her mother. It took place in the late 40s/early 50s, by best estimates. It's about her father, an Irish immigrant who owned a bar in Queens, NY. Well, one night after he closed up shop, he and a few friends decided to hang around at the bar for a bit and have a couple of drinks. One of my great-grandfather's friends apparently got really smashed. I'll give you the rest in my grandmother's words:
"My father's friend Mickey got pretty cockeyed and I guess he decided to go have a good shit for himself. Well, he fell asleep sitting on the toilet, and so my father and his friends ... (at this point she laughs hysterically for about 3 minutes, composes herself, and continues) they painted his wiggy green!"
What a proud family legacy. Someday I'll be able to tell my children what a pioneer of weekend douchedom their great-great-grandfather really was.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
We are adding a new feature and we need your help. In addition to submitting your hilarious stories of drunken douchery, we are asking you to send us any ridiculously funny drunk texts you have either sent to others or received yourself to email@example.com. Here are some prime examples of what we're looking for (thanks to the friends of the editors who gave us these gems!):
"I know it is late, but I still think that "Scary Movie 2" is better than "Scary Movie"..."
"I would love to bend you over my kitchen table and do whatever I wanted to you...but then I would probably have to put back my Sears wok and check my blackberry.lol"
"Sorry its so late, but I am realy drunks. I miss your ass, it reminds me of a bundt cake."
"You're half right. 75% of what you said was true."
"Im about to get Donald Duck mad."
"Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one. Is this really love or just a game???"
So bust out your cell phones and go through your inboxes and sent folders and send us the texts that make you piss your pants laughing. Thank you!
I am from New Jersey, so it should be fairly obvious that I am both Italian and raised Catholic. Thus, Easter is the biggest spectacular of the year! We have family dinner, which usually involves getting trashed to be able to stomach relatives and something offensive happening. This particular story revolves around my grandfather. My grandfather is cooler than Shaft and Prince. He is the coolest muthafucka ever. BUT, he does not drink often.
We went to dinner at an upscale restaurant (this being the first mistake) and had wine. My grandfather, hammering down two glasses within 20 minutes, was exhibiting the initial signs of drunkenness. Signs include talking about World War II and major league baseball players on “dope.” Fifteen minutes into a diatribe about Daryl Strawberry’s deep involvement in NYC drug trafficking, my grandfather flags down the waiter and asks for sambuca and a bottle of Bud. My grandmother yells out “what are you crazy?!? They don’t have Bud, you act like an idiot," to which the waiter replies “No, we don't have Budweiser, but I have a lovely selection of beers, such as Amstel Light and Sam Adams.” My grandfather’s dessert drink was then nixed by my mother, our beloved matriarch and well-known tyrant. At one point, I tried to melt her black heart by saying “but he is 91 Mom, for Christ’s sake, he deserves it!” She looked at me as if I was someone who took dirty pictures of 5 year olds. I then shut up for the rest of the meal.
Before leaving, we had to stop at the coat check. While trying to get his jacket, my grandfather fell head-first into the coat check. My grandmother, who at this point is acting a little bit like a golden retriever from the wine, didn’t notice. My grandfather regained his balance with the help of the manager of the restaurant, took a crisp Andrew Jackson out of his wallet, and tried to hand it to the manager, saying “Take this and don’t tell the small lady behind us what happened," clearly referencing my grandmother. My grandfather would later attempt to pay someone off again at a banquet hall when he walked into a 50th Anniversary party while trying to find my cousin’s Christening, but that story is for another time and place. Namely next week when I have no new material.
Monday, April 13, 2009
This story is about someone I know and his first time getting drunk. We will refer to him strictly as Mr. Lorenzo Lamas to protect the innocent.
The first time Lorenzo got drunk, he was in 7th grade. His family was a little Northern Jersey Christian trailer trash (you know, 700 kids and the parents believed in family planning) so he decided to steal some of those airplane-sized bottles of liquor and bring them to school, Catholic school I might add. Lorenzo gives a couple to his friends, and decides he is drinking two sexy airplane-sized Jack Daniels and covering it with about 6 sprays of mint binaca. (You know you used binaca when you were in 6th and 7th grade. It was rank and awesome, kind of like the Axe spray of the 90s. I will stop now.)
Soon after, everyone had to line up for gym class. A game of kickball soon commenced. Mr. Lamas had never drank, and was unaware of the fact that alcohol can make you kind of a dick. Mostly a kind boy, the alcohol unleashed something deep-seated inside Mr. L. Lamas. Every time he got up to kick, he would purposely aim his shot at the fat kid who had a severe gas problem or the annoying kid who picked his nose and put it on his desk. In fact, his rage got so bad, he was asked to sit out of the game. He spent the rest of the class sweating profusely on the sidelines.
Upon arriving back to class, it was time for lunch. Lorenzo had brought a salami sandwich on white bread (the image of this is too much for me to take). As he ate it, he noticed himself nodding off. Eventually he was out like a light. He awoke to someone shaking him, as he apparently starting yelling and flailing about in his sleep. He told his teacher that the nightmare was a direct result of his eating salami. No one was the wise, but of course we now know better. This was the first time Mr. Lorenzo Lamas moonlighted as a douche.
This is a simple story, featuring a girl, quite a few PBRs, and a dream. I spend my midsummer nights at a lovely establishment called the Bushwick Country Club, located in Williamsburg at the corner of Grand Street and Eldorado. The highlights and amenities of the establishment include Big Buck Hunter, a photo booth and a six-hole miniature golf course in the backyard.
On this particular evening, my urge to play mini-golf was surpassed only by my burning desire to get shitcanned. Luckily I was able to turn to my faithful friend Pabst while my friends and I had to wait for the local Shakespeare troop to finish their company picnic. I noticed the creeping specter of intoxication as I was unable to keep my grip on the mini-golf clubs over which I was keeping careful watch.
The hipsters finally finished their sandwiches, so my friends and I teed up. Things began innocently enough. We played a few holes, and were even greeted by the very nice and much obliging owner of the bar who was acting for the moment as groundskeeper. We chatted, we smiled, we shared a moment. Or at least that's what my drunken ass thought. On the third hole, I declared my love for the owner, who I did not realize was still standing right there, as I tripped and fell into the Pabst Blue Ribbon windmill, the very centerpiece of that championship green. Gentleman that he was, he did not mention my verbal diarrhea as he expertly fixed the windmill, thus saving my good name and preserving the exquisiteness of the miniature golf course for generations of country club members to come. The irony was not lost on me and my friends, as we continued to embrace that double-edged sword known as Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The first week of my freshman year of college, my new roommate from Staten Island would not stop bragging about her alcohol tolerance, how vodka tasted like water to her, and how she never really got wasted no matter how much she had to drink. (I think we all know where this is headed.) One night she came back to the dorm totally hamboned, I mean, just fucking sloppy. She got undressed and got into her bed, then yelled non-stop "I'm dying, I'm dying, call an ambulance" for about a half an hour. My other roommate and I tried to find our RA but he was probably out molesting some other freshman because he was no where in sight. As we were debating whether to take her to the hospital, she proceeded to vomit all over the carpet, fall off her bed, roll around in the vomit, then fall asleep for the rest of the night sprawled out on the floor in nothing but her underpants, covered in her own sick (wish I had a pic of this refinement). She dropped out about 2 months later, but the smell of puke lingered in our dorm room for the rest of the year.
Friday, April 10, 2009
This particular bit of weekend douche happened to a friend of mine a couple of years back. Let's call him Uncle Jesse Katsopolis. He was at a birthday party at the 40/40 Club on W. 25th. As was his custom, he got tanked and proceeded to get rowdy, Greek-dancing somewhat violently on any and every table in his line of view. Well, the bouncer was having none of it and kicked his ass to the curb. Unbelievably, the valiant attempts made by a few of his friends to slip a couple of Washingtons to the bouncer to get him back in were ineffective, and he went on his way. At this point he called me, sobbing hysterically, saying he had never felt so ashamed and so alone. He asked if we could meet up, and though I was happily at home, playing Snood in my pajamas, I agreed to meet him on the corner of 13th and 5th. Well, this was only 12 blocks away from the 40/40 Club, so after standing around like a dickhead for 15 minutes, I called him to see where he was. The dialogue went as follows:
Me: Hey, where are you?
Uncle Jesse: I'll tell you when I get to the corner. Umm, 34th and 5th.
Me: You fucking idiot, you're walking the wrong way, turn around and walk in the other direction.
Uncle Jesse: Ok. I love you. You're really a good friend. No one really cares about me.
Incoherent sobbing for another 5 minutes straight.
Me: Ok, where are you now?
Uncle Jesse: Uhh, 39th and 5th.
Me: YOU TWIT. Stop walking. Do an about face. Walk in the other direction.
2 minutes pass.
Me: Where are you?
Uncle Jesse: 41st and 5th.
Me: Listen, at this rate you'll be in fucking Central Park soon and then we'll never find you. Get in a cab and just tell the driver 13th and 5th.
Uncle Jesse hails cab, gets in, gives address, sobs.
Uncle Jesse: Wait...wait a minute. WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? YOU ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY. WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING ON DOING TO ME?
Uncle Jesse’s cab pulls up to the corner where I'm waiting within seconds.
At this point, he dragged me to get pizza at his favorite place on 14th and 2nd Ave, then to University Place and Waverly, because he wanted to eat the pizza along with a special turkey sandwich with a particular kind of honey mustard he could only get at one deli. Then I dutifully walked him back to his dorm, where he passed out, leaving the pizza and sandwich uneaten on the floor by his bed. Weekend douche, out.
- Hilary Duff being a Weekend Douche on the Lower East Side: Gawker
- The Sham Wow dude and that hooker really messed each other up: The Smoking Gun
- Avril Lavigne being a drunk mess: Hollywood Rag
- Pete Wentz being ... himself: Dlisted
- Weekend Douche party at Zac Efron's house: Funny or Die
- Looks like Crabbe from the Harry Potter movies is a Weekend Douche: NY Daily News
- Lindsay and Sam decide to take a break: Dlisted
Any douche news catch your eye this week? Send the juice to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Tomorrow we will be announcing the winner of our first Caption Contest. Though clearly intimidated by the clever posts of all 4 of our commenters, please be a gambler and post a caption! You could win my Poison hat from 1986!
Caption Contest - Week of 4/5/09
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Last St. Patrick's Day I decided to get really loaded and act like a gigantic douche, a douche that pushes the limits of all douchedom. A meta-douche if you will.
So before I left my house, I decided it would be a really good idea to drink a ton of rum which makes me a nasty fuck. Me and my friends then go to the train, which was above the ground and kind of in the middle of nowhere, so we brought alcohol with us. This being the ultimate mistake of the night.
Once we got to Nancy's (which if you haven't gone, is a shitshow must), I had a conversation outside with some douche who tried to convince me that 9/11 did not happen. For some reason, I decided to tell him that I was a lawyer who worked for the New York Department of Housing...I don't know why or what point I was making. This very much sets the tone for the mistaken identity and eventual fraud that was perpetrated. Very "Catch Me If You Can" minus any actual entertainment value. On to the climax.
We then all went to some place in midtown, and promptly had to leave very soon after. While inside, I did fall off a bar stool I was told. My friend and I got into a cab. This is when it all happened. The cab driver did that "Oh, I don't know where I am going, I can't seem to take you to your home, which is located off a extremely well-known, obviously straight line path. I have to make several wrong turns and run the meter up sufficiently" thing they always do.
At this point, lit about the attitude, I decide it best to tell the driver I am an off-duty police officer and that I can immediately contact one of my co-officers and report him to the Better Business Bureau for cab drivers (I don't think there is one). He then tells me I am full of shit, at which point I proceed to scream something along the lines of "Want to play fucker? I am calling the 22nd precinct now. We will see who is full of shit when we have your license and ass!!!!"
This guy thinks I am nuts so he just takes us home and doesn't even make us pay. As I get out of the cab, I vaguely remember telling the driver to go fuck himself and then I fell flat on my ass. I got up, walked halfway down the street and fell again.
I got safely inside, which was a miracle, and decided to make a burrito and take a shower. I set the burrito down on the sink, because that is where you put burritos in the bathroom, and went to climb into the shower. When I got out, I slipped and hit my face against the toilet but remained conscious. Thinking back, I almost wish I had lost consciousness, and as I went down grabbed the burrito, which could have fallen extremely slowly on top of me, so the next day my roommate would have found me wet and naked on the bathroom floor, covered in meat and cheese.
After waking up the next day, I went into the bathroom and not only discovered the burrito, but also that I had an amazing black eye. Later, it was discovered that I had lost my license, which I was convinced I left in the cab, whereas the driver would then file a suit against me for assault. Luckily, someone returned it to the police station. Of course, I then had to go to said station to pick it up, where I stood among the other douches who lost some item of theirs while acting like an asshole drunk for sure. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last.
This story actually happened to my mom in the late 70s. She and her girlfriends got trashed in the park and then went to one of the girl's houses afterward to crash, since her parents were away for the weekend. Imagine 4 stinking drunk 15 year olds passed out in their underpants in a king-size bed, drooling all over the sheets. Anyway, fast forward to about 9:00 AM, my mom's friend's Irish-Catholic parents came home early. Let's just say there was a lot of yelling, a lot of hijinks, some cursing that invoked the name of God and any number of saints and members of the holy family, and a few tears. My mom was able to find her pants, but there was no sign of her shoes. She asked her friend to help her find them, and her friend looked her square in the eye and said "GET THE FUCK OUT, NOW!" Well, Mom had to walk all the way home from the Bronx (she lived in Inwood, it's about 3 miles) with no shoes on. Class.
This story is good if only for how unbelievably embarrassing it is. Embarrassing for me. The story takes place at APT during its heyday. If you don't know what APT is, it is a bar in the meatpacking district in Manhattan which used to be incredibly trendy and hard to get into. During this time, a friend of mine who had recently moved back to New York started hanging out there every night. Anyhow, he calls and asks if me and a friend want to go, no problem getting in, and we say YES!!!
Upon getting there, I immediately view the place as a mecca. Everyone is attractive and trendy, the place is super nice, and the scene is good. This was not my experience the first time I went to Marquee, which was coincidentally hosting a large law firm party the night I was there, forcing me to be surrounded by douchebags, one of which actually pet my head several times. I digress.
After a drink, I realize I have to go to the bathroom. BADLY. I am a little tipsy, but nothing serious. As I am finished doing my business, I go to open the door and realize I can't. I am locked in. At this point, I start panicking, totally freaking out that I am going to humiliate myself when I walk out. I start grabbing at the door, and can't open it no matter what I do. All of a sudden, the knocking from outside starts. People are on line waiting. I start thinking "Jesus fucking Christ, open the door asshole! These people are going to think you are some drunk idiot fuck who can't answer the door." They would be right, I was some drunk idiot fuck who couldn't open the door. The situation could only be made worse if I had gone number two and clogged the toilet, in connection with being locked in.
More knocking came, at which point I started banging yelling "HELP, I can't open the door. I am locked in, don't let me die!!!!!" I hear people outside saying "Holy shit, she is locked in! Someone HEELP!" and I can feel the knob being turned by people outside trying to help me. The voices continue to multiply, until I realize that the whole bar is surrounding the bathroom where I, the biggest Turd Ferguson ever, am locked in. After what seemed like an eternity (i.e. 2 minutes), the door busts open and it is my friend who brought me there, who randomly had a key to the ladies room (this being a little disconcerting, but nonetheless). Upon my rescue, people waiting on line immediately rose up with applause, clapping and chanting, patting me on the back, saying things like "That was a close one." I found the whole situation to be fairly similar to what the community must have felt like in the 80s with that whole kid falling down the well situation.
This story comes from a friend who we will call PP. The first time PP got drunk was when she was 15. She and her friends decided before they would go to their awesomely cool high school dance, they would drink straight vodka next to the train tracks in Dumont, New Jersey along with wine coolers as a pre-game. (I miss wine coolers and Boons. They were simply delicious and had more alcoholic content than 151, I swear to God. I would have one wine cooler while listening to the song "Tubthumping" by Chumbawamba and be shitcanned.)
So after the sexy party, they returned to her friends house where their drunk asses decided it would be HILARIOUS if PP wore a Santa hat and a t-shirt with a chimp on it that said "I Think Therefore I Am" to the dance. Jesus Christ, only a mother could love it. They get to the dance, thinking they are keeping it cool, but they reek of Smirnoff Ice and are dancing to "Miami" by Will Smith like total tards.
After being picked up by the friend's parents, they go back by the train tracks to drink more. PP told me she might be taking a bit of creative license here, since her old ass doesn't remember perfectly. The story ends with her having to be carried Baywatch style to her friend's house, where while watching Boogie Nights, she started vomiting on herself, followed by her falling down two flights of stairs. The next morning, PP's ankle was fucked up, and would remain that way for some time. She also had vomit in her hair and was forced to go to Houlihan's with her family and sit through an entire meal while she had the spins. She is now a legitimate alcoholic.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
This story is a fine example of my own personal douchiness and if I can save one from acting as douchy as me, then I must share the story. A few years ago I was in graduate school. Simply put, it was hell. Many of the students were douches in their own right, though not as fun because they were sober. As a result, myself and a friend felt the need to go to Happy hour on many nights after our late afternoon classes. On this particular occasion, my friend and I participated in several hours of happy and then stumbled out of the bar. Three steps outside of the bar I discovered the seal was broken and that I could very well pee my pants. Now, those who are not douches would have simply turned around and gone back into the bar to use the facilities. However, we decided the much better course of action would be to walk the three blocks back and use the school powder room.
We left the bathroom feeling refreshed and ready to drink more, when we happened on an exit out of the school. This particular exit was always roped off after 5 pm with a sign attached which said "Please use the front exit. This exit is locked after 5pm." What you need to know about me is that when I am drunk I think that I am Judd Nelson from "The Breakfast Club" and I really feel I can show the squares a thing or two. I look at my friend and say "I bet this isn't locked" and duck under the rope and open it. Immediately, the shrillest, loudest sound you have ever heard starts and my friend (who is much smarter than I am) hauls ass the other way. I start to follow her. However, I had seven stitches in the bottom of my right foot due to a tragic wine glass incident (I was actually sober when it happened) and was forced to trot like a horsey instead of hauling ass. Very stealthy. Don't let this happen to you kids.
Monday, April 6, 2009
One night Harvey's Mom and I got pretty drunk, so we decided it best for me to crash with her. The next morning, still extremely hungover, I began my odyssey home.
Around 8:30 AM, dressed in an animal house t-shirt, yoga sweat pants and flip flops, I embarked on my journey fearlessly and full of hope that I would make it home within an hour. This would not happen. As I walked along the expressway (true class), I proceeded to trip and fall, causing my big toe to start spewing blood which would run down my entire foot throughout the entire journey, causing people to stare open mouthed as I passed. I very much looked like a hate crime gone terribly wrong.
I stopped in a deli to get water, which I didn't drink as I am allergic to anything which might help a hangover conceptually. As I exited, I was greeted by a 16 year old man known only as Jerome, who would become my faithful companion until our alliance would be tested and he would prove disloyal. At first blush, one might have thought his salutation of "Girl, you got the finest ass I ever did see" and his trailing me for 6 blocks to be somewhat off-putting and possibly indicative of stalking. However, as with all great odyssey stories (and by stories I mean one, "Lord of The Rings"), attracting friends and foes along the way is necessary.
Slowly approaching Marcy Avenue, where I would decide to abandon my on-foot journey for the train, Jerome was tempted away by the siren song of four 15 year old hood rats in tight jeans and Nike high tops. Much like the betrayal of Jesus Christ by Judas, I was left alone, flabbergasted that the ties that bound us were so weak. Jerome proved to be a capricious companion. Like all true heroes and Green Day, I walked alone.
The train ride was anti-climactic, though I did have the pleasure of meeting two indigo girl-type lesbians who were on their way to JFK for a vacation in San Fransisco. As I exited, a woman came running behind me, yelling to the conductor that she had forgotten her purse in the train. The conductor then opened the window, stuck his head out, looked directly at her, and flipped her a peace sign as he started the train moving, pulling out of the station. This was the FUNNIEST thing I have ever seen.
I turned onto my street and was stopped by a concerned citizen, likely a local drug dealer, who looked down at my blood covered foot and then up at my t-shirt and said "Shit, you like you had a rough night. You okay?" to which I replied, " I am AMAZING!" I passed him slowly with a knowing look, that shit went down and I had a good story to back it up.
I went to Happy Hour. The people I was with knew the owners, so the drinks were given a bit too freely and I accepted a bit too readily.
So I had this strange relationship with this guy for about 3 months. He and I regularly e-mailed and texted one another, but due to his splitting time here and in California and also due to his girlfriend whom I knew nothing about, we never saw each other. The week before this incident we had gone to dinner and he confessed his double life. I, of course, thought he was a real prick for this, but I decided to finish my steak first then never speak to him again.
As I suffer from the weakness of the flesh drunk dialing, we had been texting. This night I was feeling rowdy, I texted him something along the lines of “you have a small penis." There was a threat to meet me where I was for us to have a “talk." Since he is busy, living the chic New York life, I never assumed he would actually come to where I was.
I text him to meet me outside the Duane Reade on 34th street across from the TGIF. I think I also questioned his sexuality in this text. He responds with “you aren’t actually by the TGIF on 34th street, are you?" I arrived at our rendezvous destination, barely able to walk straight, and decided to go to Payless across the street. While in there, I missed 5 calls, because I was listening to “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips on my ipod.
He found me in the store and was disgusted. The thing you have to understand about this person is that he loves luxury and is HIGHLY PRETENTIOUS. The sickened look on his face was backed by his plea for us to leave immediately, at which point we went outside to fight on the street outside the TGIF. I suggested that we have a mudslide and was greeted by the response “I would never go to a chain restaurant," to which I countered, “Applebee’s wouldn’t count in that right? What about the Red Lobster on 42nd, that is pretty close?” Of course the argument ended with him saying something along the lines of “You are completely unattractive to me when you are this drunk," me responding with “you are an epic asshole and are balding!!!!” and then us making out. I just thought this one was pretty amusing due to the ambiance.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
So this story doesn’t really involve a weekend, but it is nonetheless hilarious. It actually took place a couple of years ago, back when I was underage and drank much less, so I was a better spectator.
Five summers ago, my family decided to take a summer vacation to Disney World. I would like to preface by saying, I can imagine you all snickering, but Disney is the shit so don’t be a hater! While there on vacation, we decided to go to Disney Village (Downtown Disney for all those born after 1986) for dinner. The restaurant we chose was some upscale, seafood place (though if you think I didn’t DEMAND for it to be Chef Mickey’s you would be out of your mind).
While at dinner, we ordered wine. My mom, who hasn’t drank since 1975, which is a miracle when you consider she was married to my father, decided to have two glasses of wine and consequently got tanked. At dinner, the trashedness wasn’t entirely apparent, since she was sitting down, though she started talking loudly and saying some ridiculous shit, such as “You know, Aunt Terry can be a bit of a slut sometimes, and you know I hate to say it.”
When we finally left, my mom was kind of weaving as she walked, and my older brother suggested we bring her back to the hotel. I, having the greatest time of my life, looked at him and said something along the lines of “Everything is cool baby, don’t worry about it.” Moreover, I thought it might be high time we hit one of the gift shops.
Aside from the fact that those gift shops are shoplifting heavens (you have all thought it), there are also about 17 million overly friendly retail workers in them. My mom at this point, having hot flashes from the wine, started complaining about the people greeting her and offering to help. It was at this point that she became nasty, declaring that she didn’t need the salespeople “hanging on her ass.” F.Y.I. That is one of my mother’s favorite expressions to use when she is at a store having hot flashes. She once told a clerk as Circuit City “to go fuck himself” because he was “hanging on her ass.” I don’t think he heard it, but it was hilarious.
We then had to leave the gift shop and immediately get her one of those oversized Mickey Mouse head shaped rice krispie treats to sober up. True story.