My Birthday

I don’t expect much out of birthdays anymore. There are really only two important ones: Being old enough to drink, and old enough to drive. I am old enough to do both, and I regularly do both together. Social security is really the only one left to look forward to. And even though it’s a ways off, I look forward to sucking dry the productive youth of society.

I was fortunate to have my birthday on a Friday night, which meant the entire crew was up for a night on the town. My crew consists of a bunch of aging hasbeens. They don’t go out on just any night. Spanish, is a mexican that we sponsored from a tv commercial. He never went back. The Greek is probably the most metrosexual on our group. And by group I mean every man on the planet. The guy gels each individual hair strand, rocks a gold medallion, tans in a speedo, botex’s his balls, and is completely hairless from the neck down. If he wasnt a childhood friend of Prattinez, we would all probably hate him. Prattinez is a white guy but drives a lowrider truck and works construction (in an office). Big Sexy is bald Colorado hippy/biker. Steve-o is big enough to kick your ass, but wont. Bill is Big Sexy’s friend from out west, a recent transplant to ATL.


The night began at the Vortex, and if you havent been, get your ass there now. Best burgers in town, bar none. I wasnt there 5 seconds before a shot of tequila was set in front of me. “Happy Birthday bitch” toasted Prattinez. I love my friends. The front of the Vortex is shaped like a laughing skull, what more could you ask for. We sat down and the waitress bought me an Irish Car Bomb and one for herself, on the house. The night was progressing nicely and we hadnt even started dinner.

We obtained use of the Greeks’ father’s minivan for the evening and put Spanish at the wheel. It had three hubcaps, but we found a fourth on the sidewalk outside of the Gravity Pub in EAV. It was shots of jager upon arriaval. I think it was on special There is nothing special about Jager except how awful it is.

.If you go down to the basement at Gravity, be careful if you play pool.“Look out for that, it’s the Shitter.” Prattinez warned, pointing up to the leaking plumbing above the pool table. Prattinez works construction and knows this type of shit. A dripping sewage pipe really adds to the charm of any dive bar. There are no chicks in the EAV. If there are, they look like guys, and have more tatoos than Big Sexy. We decided we had enough man time, and it was time to move on.


Over my objections that it was to classy for my tastes, we ended up at the Pink Pony. Naturally, we valet the minivan. The Pony is generally thought of as the best strip club in town. I disagree. It has the most attractive women no doubt, but they are like Russian porn stars, all business and no heart. Give me a girl who enjoys what she’s doing. I don’t care if she has C-section scars and cankels. Nothing puts some energy in a lapdance like the desperation of three kids back at home in the trailer and a meth habit to feed.


Its at this point that the night begins to resemble more of a bachelor party than a birthday party. I sit down and two second later I get a lap dance. As soon as she gets up the shot girl sits down. I don’t give a shit about the overly long simulated blowjob they give the shot cylinder. If you arent going to show me your tits, leave the shot on the table and get the fuck off my lap, there are ladies waiting.

This pattern repeats itself until I begin to lose track of pretty much everything. Dances get kind of boring at the Pony after a while because the strippers just kind of dance in front of you rather than all over you like at some of the more desperate clubs. The Greek tried to liven things up by pulling the girls hair back as she grinded him. They don’t like that at the Pony. You cant get away with anything there, its worse than fucking middle school, so we decide to head out. Im not complaining or anything, its just that if you like a more hands on experience, you probably want to try elsewhere.

We decided that all looking and no touching sucked, and we moved on to our prearanged rendevous with the ladies. We get to a bar in the Highlands were I promptly lose all sense of being in control of my mental faculties. Soon after, I fall asleep leaning against a pole. I fall asleep on the bar. Apparently, I fall asleep easily when dead drunk. Earlier, bets were that I wouldnt see eleven. It was only about 2am, but I was toast. I manage to pick myself up off the bar and promptly demand to be taken home. When things don’t happen fast enough for me, I begin to repeat them.

Me: “I need to go home”

Big Sexy: “The girls are on their way, the Kiwi will be here to take care of you in a few minutes.” Big Sexy tries to pacify me until he can pass me off to my girlfriend. I speed dial the Kiwi. I am crashing fast.

“ I NEED TO GO HOME” I shout into the Kiwi’s voicemail, and then to anyone within earshot.

“TAKE ME HOME NOW GODDAM IT”

I simply repeat this with increasing gusto and frequency until Big Sexy decides to wash his hands of me and sticks me in a cab.

The Kiwi arrives home 5 minutes after me to find me playing with the dog, perfectly coherent. I have no recollection of this. She was worried I wouldnt be able to speak well enough to give the cab driver directions. I was fine. He was Nigerian and I was hammered, the language sounded pretty much the same.

The next day, Out West Hippy Bill says, “Dude, I cant believe you didnt throw up.” People, I have thrown up in my life exactly twice since the age of 5. Both times involved chewing tobacco. I have done as much or more drinking as your typical alcoholic, and like them, I do not throw up. I do not know why, but it just doesnt happen. Back when I had to take a class on the dangers of drinking for getting my first underage possession, the instructor told us that you throw up because your body is so poisoned by the large amount of alcohol, it prevents your organs from shutting down. Well, I think my body just really likes alcohol and doesnt want to waste any. So I end up passing out regularly rather than throwing up. It’s a tradeoff Im satisfied with.

So, nothing really crazy happened, which is not surprising. My friends are scarred of EAV, and almost balked at the Gravity Pub. Such sheltered lives suburbanites lead. Give me crack ho’s on the street and police helicopters in the sky, and I am a happy man. Oh, and alcohol, Im not happy without alcohol.