Bobby D'Angelo
In January of 2019, I wasn’t worried about the collapse of American small business, the jobs lost due to a pandemic, or even the suspect bump I felt on my ballsack ten minutes ago: I just needed a bed.
It was my last week of winter break, my freshman year of college, my last hoorah for hanging out with the boys that I saw my first tit on Omegle with. Because I’d be flying back to Texas a week from when this went down, my one more debaucherous friend and I decided we wanted to do something special. We landed on abruptly driving an hour and a half to Philadelphia and surprising my cousin, who was in his mid-twenties. We did just that.
I swear to god I didn’t tell him we were coming until we were blasting Meek Mill on Broad Street like any two white nineteen-year-old morons would. When you’re in college, there is relatively no difference between Wednesday and Saturday, but my cousin lives in the real world. His version of going crazy is drinking four 1970’s Grateful Dead concert level hazy IPAs and watching HBO max with his girlfriend. When we got to his place late in the afternoon, he texted us where he hides his key, and we immediately began drinking beers with the speed of Zach Wilson’s publicist deleting his old tweets. We didn’t consider that he is a millennial with tiny furniture nowhere near capable of bedding myself or my friend, who is six foot three, we were on a mission to commence suckdown.
After imploring the poor bastard for over an hour, my cousin reluctantly agreed to have a few drinks with us at one of his favorite bars in center city. After talking about music festivals for about an hour, my friend (who I’ll give it to him has a lot more charisma than myself) struck up a conversation with four attractive blondes around our age and gave me the intro. At the same time, my cousin made it very clear that he would not wake up at six in the morning and commute forty-five minutes with a hangover, so his Uber was en route. Our prospects looked good. We were making the girls laugh, Snapchats were exchanged, and a few arm brushes took place. It seemed as if this spontaneous adventure was going to have a fantastic payoff.
But then something happened in their group chat. Alyssa’s boyfriend cheated on her, which was the last thing she needed right now after failing her Calc midterm, and it seemed as though our new friends were required to return to their apartment ASAP. It was a tough blow, but life is all about wins and losses, so we spent the next few hours shooting the shit as any two old friends would. Before we knew it, it was 1:42 AM, and a cold floor was our best candidate for a sleeping situation. In January? Fuck that. My friend desperately looked around this barren bar in the early hours of a Thursday morning for anybody that could provide even a blow-up mattress. And as our luck would have it, the last two remaining women in our sights just happened to both be well over three-hundred pounds.
I’m not writing this blog to fat shame. I’m writing this blog because had these women been members of the Bengal’s offensive arsenal, Joe Burrow plays a full, healthy 2020 season. There is a difference between being chubby and being seventy-five pounds away from having your own show on TLC. If our delicate society can’t see that, we have lost any hope of being reasonable. I’m not the type of guy to talk about any girl’s weight ever, but once Walmart doesn’t carry your waist size in jeans, I feel like it’s fair game. If these girls weren’t over THREE HUNDRED FIFTY pounds, this isn’t a story noteworthy to blog about. Having sex with an overweight stranger is a typical Wednesday for me when I’m single, but fucking Mama June’s long-lost cousin is one for the books.
So my boy and I go over to their table and buy them both Coors Lights for last call. Next thing I know, I find myself playing tonsil hockey with somebody whose name I don’t know in exchange for shelter. I’m no prize at all, I’m a six on a really really good day, but it’s safe to say that my friend and I were exponentially more sexually active than our counterparts. So they call an Uber back to their place, and my piece of shit pal makes me sit in between eight hundred pounds while he’s got all the leg space a Hyundai Elantra can offer. I spent the entire eight-minute car ride brainstorming the most creative excuses known to man to have access to a couch without having to be a prostitute. And as soon as we got out of the Uber, I started bawling my eyes out. My Grandma, who has been dead for the past nine years, miraculously respawned only to die again; at least that’s what I convinced them to believe. I told the girls that I was overwhelmed and needed air, so it would be very kind of them to provide me with the PIN for their apartment while I process the death of my Grandmother around the streets of Philly.
I sat in the 24/7 Chinese restaurant two blocks away for maybe two hours. There was an unspoken understanding between the guy making me Wonton Soup at Two-Thirty in the morning and me that we were both down bad. As soon as I slipped back into their apartment, I found the first empty bedroom I could, passed out for two hours, and replayed the extraordinary circumstances of the last twelve hours in my head.
My friend woke me up at 6 AM, called an Uber back to my cousin’s house, and looked out the window the whole drive. As my cousin was heading off to work, he asked us, “damn, you guys really took those blonde girls home last night? Congrats!” Thanks, bro. You got any bagels?
THE END
