My friend Kyle had a party at his house this weekend. It sucked. I like to go to my own bed and cope with alcohol poisoning before going back out the next night. Not happening at Kyles, though. Everyone stayed the night. Friday night was excellent, I went 2 for 5 in beer pong and polished off an 18 pack which put me in "Life of the Party" mode. Fooled around with a girl who, on her mothers grave, was 19 or 20...or something of age, she swore. To top it off, I led a fight against a typical "I take pics of myself throwing gang signs in the mirror for myspace" wankster who had previously threatened to shoot me.
The house was so gone by this point, before the battle, I led about 20 kids in a chant mimicking the under arm commercial. "What time is it??" I roared. "Game time!"
Drunk white guys love to release inner testosterone on one another.
But alas, it was not game time, but instead bed time. I passed out soon after, vomited on myself many a time, and started to question if I would die the death of a hero.
Noon rolled around and some shits were still there. Who were these kids? I dont know. They arrived around 7-8am Kyle believed and they were all sporting pocket chains and bowls.
Apparently, the pocket chain craze didnt die with Waynes World. Its back baby. All we need now is the revival of Zebra Pants and we got ourselves a party. Anyways, all these guys had the Pete Wentz look going on and I began to realize just where my life had led me, sitting in a puddle of vomit with marker on my face, and surrounded by 17 year olds with pocket chains.
Yea
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