Bobby D'Angelo
It’s 5:03PM, and the Zyn in your mouth has grown dryer than a seventy-four-year-old substitute teacher’s reproductive system. Drew Timme and Gonzaga were more successful in their campaign to make sure you didn’t buy a new nicotine device than any lobbyist or no smoking campaign ever could, so (shootout Freezer Tarps) Zydney Crosby has been getting a lot of playing time as of late. You and your friends are on your way to put down Marg pitchers at the rate a millennial woman in advertising uses the phrase, understood the assignment in everyday conversation. Every group of college guys has a Taj Mahal where regardless of race, religion, and creed, any poor college kid with a piece of paper-machete that says they’re twenty-one can get the world’s most mediocre tacos and cheap Margaritas for seventeen dollars. En route, your friend group’s Bernie Madoff has announced that he once again “will hit someone with a Venmo” because his debit card has the same amount of presence in his life as someone named Lexi’s father.
When you finally get to your destination, the vibes are immaculate. As bad as you feel for the waitress that will be inevitably cleaning up lettuce shreds after departure and has overheard seven minutes of conversation about whether or not Hasbula does better with women than your friend Nick, the fellas are getting loose. There’s something about catching a buzz while listening to soft Mexican music about heartbreak that says, “tonight will be a good one.” As the meal is ending, my hero makes his voice heard. When that one kid in your friend group that has multiple fifteen-dollar parlays going at any time doesn’t want to tip, it’s time for economic Batman to step in and tell him that he sucks. I understand skimping bartenders at overpriced bars that take advantage of college students worse than Ted Bundy, but if you can’t afford to tip 18% to a server working their way through college, don’t go out to eat.
Hammered, and with time left to kill before the next move, you guys return back to someone’s L-shaped couch where the degenerates can watch the NIT tournament. If you throw money on the NIT tournament, and it’s not your school or a mortal lock, you might want to call that phone number that BigCat references five times an episode. Everybody around is pregaming with something that says a lot about them: your bigger friends at the four and five are still throwing back IPAs, a guy like you might be rocking with a High Noon because it’s not sus to drink seltzers once the temperature has hit over sixty degrees (and you don’t want to be wearing a shirt on the beach). But then there’s one guy, everybody knows this guy- the rare, I drink seltzers all year kind of guy. He’s the kind of guy that takes his shirt off as soon as girls come around while your playing beer die, a stranger would get the wrong idea about his sexuality from one trip down his feed, and he unironically thought it was sick when Dan Bilzerian tried pretending to be a cop during the Vegas shooting.
Part 2 soon
