Girls Gone... Awesome.

It was the last time the three of us hung out together- me, the Wife, and our third friend I'm now going to start referring to as Sister Wife.  Sister Wife was moving back to Boston with her menagerie of animals and her wonderful dude that I hope she marries someday.  It was our last hurrah of the three of us being together, and by the end of it, we wound up sitting crosslegged on Wife's floor, crying about some stupid shit that I was too browned out to remember.  It was also that night that Wife found her way into my bed, on the one time I wasn't wearing any underwear (pfft, right).  Next morning we were both sorta horrified, but confident that we hadn't consummated our hetero marriage.  She just sorta looked at me bleary-eyed and said "Uh, you aren't wearing any panties are you?"  And I, bleary-eyed,  looked down at my Amazonian lady bits and said "Uh, nope."  She dry heaved and got the fuck away from that shit and went off to find Sister Wife.  As she walked out into the living room I heard her say "What the fuuuuuck??"  It was THEN that we remembered that, before the female version of a circle jerk broke out on the living room floor, we'd tossed some frozen tots in the oven.  Well, turns out we'd wound up emotionally circle jerking ourselves right into oblivion and forgot all about the tots.  We woke up to three feet of smoke clinging to the ceiling and I'm pretty sure it took Wife two weeks to get the stink out of her apartment.  Lucky for us, and for all you assholes, we all lived to tell the tale of Our Last Night Together Before Sister Wife Moved Back East.

Like most nights we'd vow to get crazy, the night started at the Town Pump for Jello Shots.  And any night that starts with Jello Shots at the Pump is bound to be a good one.  After the Pump, I can't recall for sure where we went,  but I think there was a visit to a back patio somewhere in there - most likely at this joint we like to go to where all the people that were freaks-in-high-school-but-are-now-way-cool-beyond-measure like to hang out.  You know, the place where people that hipsters WISH they could be like to hang out.  Yeah, pretty sure we went there.  But later, I know for a fact, that we wound up at this wee little place called the East Coast.  Because, for whatever reason, we sometimes like hanging around a bunch of douchey college kids.  Plus, the drinks there aren't bad.

So there we were.  We'd finally stumbled our way to the East Coast, where we decided that, of COURSE shots of Jameson and tall boys of PBRs were good ideas.  I mean, of COURSE.  Who WOULDN'T  think that was a good idea?  But anyway, we found ourselves dancing (at least that's what we call it, others probably thought that we looked like three chicks flailing themselves around, running away from mice n' spiders n' shit).  At any rate, amidst all that dancing and all those beers, I suddenly had to pee- BAD.  I had to pee so bad that I was seriously considering jamming a beer bottle in my urethra and pissing in it like you guys do in Gatorade bottles while driving because the line for those nasty ass bathrooms was so fucking LONG.  So long I needed a pair of goddam binoculars to see who was at the front of it.  And that's when THIS FUCKING GENIUS came up with a plan.

In lieu of shoving a beer bottle in places I'm sure wouldn't fit anyway, I stumbled and swerved my way to the front of the line and said with a straight face and a mouthful of slurring words "Hey, lissssthen.  I'm DD-ing for my friendsss toniiight and I've got to pee, like, REALLY bad.  I'm PREG-NANT and the baby is pushing on my bladder.  Can you PLEASE hook a pregger lady up and let me jump in line?"  And you know what?  That shit fucking WORKED!  I'm pretty sure I was looking at that poor asshole with only one eye open, and that last shot of Jameson nearly put me on the floor, but somehow I managed to convince her that I was, indeed, carrying a fetus in that drunk-ass body of mine.  And who in their right mind is going to deny a pregnant lady?  I'm pretty sure I deserve some kind of medal for Assholes Who Come Up With Great, Mostly Useless Ideas.

But bitches, I give you permission to use that.  I mean, it's not like I can trademark or copyright that shit, so go ahead and tell 'em you're knocked up.  And later, when they see you doing shots of Alabama Slammers, look 'em in the eye and say "Don't judge me, you fucker."