Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Here's To The Nights We Felt Alive - A Vignette



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.

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