No. 128 "Places That Should Be Open After Midnight."

Oftentimes while I'm out drinking with my buddies, (or one of my friends and several of his lame friends) I feel the urge to venture somewhere other than a seedy strip club or suburban house party. The only problem is, that most gratifying venues close after midnight. Growing up, my dad always told me that nothing good ever happens after midnight. Obviously, he has never gone out with reckless or adventurous people, nor experienced the breath of drunken tomfoolery. I bet he still imagines muggers and rapists hiding behind corners, waiting to steal the birthday money my grandmother gave me while using blasphemous language as they run away. Anyway, back to my point. There needs to be more fun places open once the sun goes down and the skirts come off. Here are a few ideas I've come up with.

The Zoo:
As children, the zoo is a magical place to pet see exotic animals from all over the world. This can be recaptured in your twenties, while twelve shots deep. Most zoos close up shop around 6 PM, which is unfortunate because most of the cool animals come out at night. No one gives a shit about a bunch of birds or geckos; we want to see animals that could single handily rampage a Bar Mitzvah. Imagine visiting the zoo late at night with a bottle of whiskey. None of the employees would be there to yell at you, so it could be a free-for-all. Riding giraffes throughout the park bareback, boxing kangaroos and feeding gazelles to the lions. What fun it could be.

The Library:
Otherwise known as the poor man's internet. The library can be a fun place when you're drunk, especially when you're surrounded by your dipshit buddies. There is a bounty of books in the library for you to make fun of. Whether its a double entendre title or a silly name of an author, everything becomes hilarious when you're loaded. E.E. Cummings? I wonder if his sister's name is B.J. Jizzings! You could also harass the nerds busy laboring on term papers and projects on a Friday night. Harass all you want, nerds have weak arms.

Brookstone:
Whenever I'm at the mall, after I hit on high school chicks I make sure to stop at Brookstone. I usually feign interest in smaller items while the employees are watching me, then hit the massage chairs once the large woman of color gets off the chair after thirty fucking minutes. They also have nifty gadgets to break play with. Just picture the fun you could have at Brookstone with all these futuristic gizmos. Anything that stimulates the sober mind is tripled in awesomeness once alcohol is involved. I heard they even have a hover board.

Supercuts:
This is my favorite hair salon for three reasons: general cheapness, adequate magazine selection, and they don't fuck up my hair 70% of the time. Impromptu haircuts are very popular among degenerate bar hounds; but the end result is rarely becoming the next morning. A Supercuts that is open late at night could solve this problem. While waiting for your haircut, you can point out girls you want to bang in the latest issue of US Weekly, and you won't look like Gary Oldman from The Fifth Element once your stylist is finished.

Car Dealerships:
What is more fun than barreling a Ferrari down the highway going 120 miles per hour with a salesman frantically calling the police from his dealership-issued cell phone? Car dealerships are basically go-kart rentals, and the city limits is the track. All you have to do is pretend to be interested in a specific sports vehicle, mock up some false credit reports and bank statements; then you're off to the races. After you crash the car through the dealership entrance you can sober up with complimentary doughnuts and coffee.

Museums:
Generally, museums are pretty boring. But, I once saw this movie where the artifacts and dinosaurs came to life; I think it was called Ben Stiller Gets Drunk At Work And Fights A T-Rex.
And that had to be based on a true story. There would be countless cultures to explore and mock. Not only would you be acquiring information about the vast history of our world, but also learn camping tips from cavemen and beat the shit out of Redcoats. And afterward you could get high on peyote with a bunch of Indians.

Chuck E. Cheese:
Most of us haven't been to Chuck E. Cheese since the age of twelve. But, that doesn't mean it can't still be a blast. From the outdated arcade games to the ball pit filled with mono and chicken pox; the fun is endless at Chuck E. Cheese. I also think that kids should be allowed in past midnight. This way, you could gain a sense of accomplishment after dominating some snot-nosed eight year-old at Whack A Mole, then ridicule him until he runs to his mommy in a heap of tears. And once you get hungry, everyone can sit down for a traditional gourmet Italian meal.

The Opera
The Opera is an elegant abode for cultured individuals to take part in the majesty of libretto coupled with classical music, costumes and caviar. Basically, a place where drunk morons should be excluded; and that is what makes it so great. Offending pompous aristocrats with fart noises and dick jokes is an experience all should engage in at least once. The Galiliean binoculars can help you in your effort to check out that cougar's juggs from across the theater. And, if you grow weary, your group can always jump on stage to reenact scenes from your favorite Rob Schneider films.

You see, late-night activities can be much more entertaining if these added places were open past midnight. Our choices for drunken entertainment are deficient, and I believe opening more businesses will help stimulate our rotten economy. But, the be safe we should give this idea a test run in Mexico; where all deranged ideas are implemented. There should be more places to spend our hard-earned money recklessly than bars, whore houses and Denny's. Plus, you can't get away with wrestling a shark or making a small child cry when you're sober.

___sidebar.

I haven't written a sidebar in a bit, so I decided to let all my reader(s) in on whats been going on in my life the last couple weeks.

As of late I've been dealing with a laborious Lazy Susan of incompetence from inept receptionists, administrators and faculty with butch haircuts. As soon as I think I have one obstacle finished, I'm tripped over the hurdle by a cattle prod of clerical mistakes. A process that should have been finished in a few hours time has taken almost a month due to idiots with power.

This really motivates me to become obnoxiously rich. That way I could carry around one of those sweet silver suitcases full of money with me. Ya know, the same kind drug dealers have. I would just casually open the suitcase and feverishly throw hundred dollar bills at the people wasting my time until they signed or processed whatever I came there to accomplish. I could also make it rain whenever I was bored on a balcony.

Anyway, I've been brewing up some new blog ideas in my gutter brain. I think I'll start writing a new post tonight, unless I get distracted by You Tube videos or Boy Meets World reruns. I should have something new up this week.

Mar sin leat,
Paddy.

No. 127 "Rejection."

No one likes rejection, especially when it comes to chicks. Some guys have the ability to write it off with a simple "bitch was probably a lesbo" comment to his buddies after he makes the shame-ridden walk back to his table. Others loath rejection to such a point that they do everything in their power to avoid it. Jessica Alba could be sprawled out naked on their bed, using empty beer bottles to pregame her pussy and they would still be apprehensive about making a move. I put myself somewhere in the middle. I hate being rejected, but at the same time know how to read a girl to an educated degree.

During my formative years I didn't have to deal with rejection since I was the most popular kid in high school. Cheerleaders, hot teachers and Hispanic custodians would throw themselves at me regularly. OK, that's completely untrue. I wasn't exactly a Lothario back in my high school days. In fact, rejection was not even an issue since teenage girls weren't interested in short, pimple-ridden sixteen year-olds without a car.

Every time I swooned after a girl I liked I would be immediately put in "The Acquaintance Zone." This was similar to "The Friend Zone," except I was never greeted with boobs-to-chest hugs or invited to themed parties. I would just see them at school and waive while they smiled and made a comment to one of their hot friends that probably went like "Ugh, there's that weirdo from my English class." Perhaps I'm remembering my years in high school a bit rougher than they actually were; but that is how it felt back then. I can look back on it with a smirk now, knowing that all the girls I had a crush on way back when are now single mothers or have serious drug addictions.

In college I was able to make the transition into the person I am now. The added six inches in height, Accutane medication and development of a personality helped. Plus, I had a car! This was new territory for me, and it was quite awesome. Instead of sitting in Chemistry class staring at girls' thongs from my chair I was able to talk to chicks without peeing my pants and running away while crying uncontrollably. And of course, alcohol helps.

Alcohol is the single best innovation to get past rejection. Going up to a girl dead sober without an established skill set or boy band looks is almost always met with hostile eyebrows and a cold shoulder. Its like tightroping with a safety net. You know the net is there in case you trip and fall. The same can be said about alcohol. You can blame the unsuccessful proposition on your lack of sobriety, slurred speech and vomit-stained cardigan. Also, memory loss is a side effect of alcohol, so you might not even remember it the next day. Win! Girls are much more approachable in social situations and sparking a conversation can be quite easy. If your cards are played right, you could be using the guest closet as a romping room in mere minutes, depending on her social graces.

During my sophomore year I had developed a perfect record of non-rejection. I still had a bit of apprehensiveness and only went for the kill when I knew the success rate was close to 100%. But, I had never been shut down whenever I attempted a shy kiss or sloppy make-out maneuver. A certain amount of arrogance was gained on my part and I was positive my chick-reading abilities were atop the national rankings. I even thought about developing t-shirts that read "Mr. 100%," but a screen-printing machine was not available to me at this time. In hindsight, I probably would have been mistaken for an excellent student with a shirt that read the aforementioned slogan. People would request tutoring and notes in my classes, and I would have to begrudgingly explain the true meaning of the shirt.

I had little room in my dorm due to my collection of trash and dirty laundry

This all came to a head when I met a girl. Lets call her Tracy, since I don't know anyone by that name. I had met Tracy a few weeks earlier and developed a fondness for her. By "fondness" I mean that I wanted to frantically titty-fuck her on my futon. We would text and AIM (I'm dating myself with that one) every couple days. These texts were filled with "LOLs" and winky faces, so I knew she was into me. Tracy was a bit above my pay grade looks-wise, but was a naive freshmen so I thought I could coax her into blowing me.

I would occasionally drop by her dorm to hang out and watch movies I had no interest in viewing. Lamentably, her obese roommate was always roaming around eating and cock-blocking me; sometimes at the same time. This made it nearly impossible to swoop in and make a steadfast advance on Tracy. Eventually, her roommate wasn't around the next time I came over. She was probably at some sort of hot dog eating contest or chili cook off. I finally had a window to make my move.

Tracy was complaining about back problems; probably due to her glorious ta-tas. So, I did what any red-blooded male would and offered a free massage. So far this was going swimmingly. She took off her shirt and I began to give her a half-assed massage; which was basically me focusing on her butt for ten minutes. Then, quite slyly I went in for a momentary kiss. This is how it went down:

Tracy: (Perplexed look) "Uh, what are you doing?"
Me: "I, um... Shit, well..."
Tracy: "Did you just try to kiss me?"
Me: "Yeah. What's wrong?"
Tracy: "What gave you that idea?"
Me: "Just going with the flow, I thought you were into it."
Tracy: "No. I'm not."
Me: "Well, fuck."

I then went off on a vitriolic tirade where I called her not-so-generous names such as "a mind-fucker," "cock tease" and "bitch." I had never yelled at a girl previously; with the exception of my mother whenever she grounded me or my sister for unplugging my video games. After I was done assuring that every girl in her hall thought of me as a misogynistic dickhead, I slammed the door and stormed out. I felt concurrently jilted and aggrandized. This feeling lingered until I realized I had left my favorite jacket in her room.

Tyler Durden's jacket can't hold a candle to mine

If this was just a regular jacket I would have abandoned it at her place where she would eventually throw away weeks later. But, this jacket was fucking sick. I just had to add that. Anyway, I had to go back up the elevator, walk to her room, apprehensively knock on the door and request my jacket back. My storm out was nullified a bit, and I'm sure she got a chuckle out of seeing me come back with my tail between my legs. Even though I just grabbed my jacket and left without saying sorry.

Since then, I've been rejected numerous times. I like to compare it to a swift kick to the balls. Sure, it hurts for a couple minutes, but if you wear a mental-cup you won't get hurt. Rejection is something we all have to live with; like the fact that Justin Bieber is still breathing. Being rejected isn't that big of a deal and we all handle it differently. Whether its by calling the rejector a dumb skank or taking a swig from your beer and casually moving on to the next girl. For me, I've learned two lessons over the years: Don't throw a fit over superfluous situations, and leaving your jacket in a hostile environment really ruins a sweet storm out.