Lube: A timeless bastion of penile deceit.

Boy, Tony, you got me again. What is this, thirteen straight weeks now, fourteen? I’m fucking clueless, man. I'm telling you, this guy’s technique is legit! I’ve got to keep it down because Tony is currently passed out with last night’s chorizo taco still in hand. Let me just say to you that from the moment Tony put on that horrendous pink shirt, I should have known that he’d be coming home wasted and womanless.

You’d think that after four straight hours of fruitless bar posturing, I’d know that all nocturnal sensations would solely derive from Tony’s hand and that fragranced lotion he pocketed two months ago from that Red Roof Inn. Tony fucking loves this stuff. And you’d think I’d know the smell by now. I guess it’s made by these Lubriderm folks. They do make some nice products, I’ll admit. But I’m pissed because yet again, I come home from a night of drinking and in the dark delirium of Tony’s bedroom, I’m duped by his sweaty hand and the slippery sensations of the motel lube.

And to think I root for this guy every time the weekend rolls around. Ok, so last night, I’ll admit, I got excited when I saw him chatting it up with that hefty broad in the shawl. I thought he had a chance. But even then, a frickin’ shawl? It looked like my aunt’s couch was missing a throw blanket. But, did I speak up? Of course not, I waited patiently in Tony’s Paper Denim jeans, which he clearly bought to keep me at bay.

He spends $140 to show-off his boyish ass and modest bulge, but it all goes for naught because everybody is distracted by that hideous cuff he sports on his wrist. Oh yeah, this thing is a real chick magnet. The only chick I’ve seen look at this fucking thing was the sales girl who told Tony it made him look manly. ‘Hey Tony, you take off that hilarious cuff and put me in a female, that’ll make you look manly, you rimknuckle.’ But no, instead of actual progress, Tony stands there at the bar, awkwardly buttoning and unbuttoning that stupid cuff. Every time he unbuttons that piece of trash, I think of the commission that sales girl made, and the crystal meth she likely bought with it. That cunt. But exactly, that’s what I’m talking about! She would’ve sufficed.

Man, I hate how I look in pictures.

Sometimes at the bar I will yell, ‘Hey Tony, direct some lady traffic downward.’ But he doesn’t listen to me. ‘Hey Tony, pour those drinks quicker, mix me into some conversation, heck, bring me out to dangle.’ But the only drinks he pours after midnight are for himself and his douchebag friend, Lucas. Sometimes I try to talk some sense into Lucas and say, ‘Hey, get your act together. You and Tony should go try talking to some girls.’

But by the time Lucas has had three of those Jagerbombs that he and Tony drink all the time, he is perfectly content just staring at the bartender’s cleavage instead of venturing out to secure some of his own. So, I got fucking no wingman in Lucas. Lucas is technically Tony’s wingman, but these two disappointments spend more time giving each other this frat boy fist pound after each Jagerbomb they take. What is this fist pounding shit? Apparently the high five has gone the way that pink shirt Tony is wearing should have gone. Plus, I’m starting to feel that the popped collar is lady-repellent. Where was that collar 19 months ago, when women actually responded to that gimmick, huh Tony? Tony and Lucas are the fashionable equivalents to Laser Discs in a DVD era, and them being out of touch only puts me more in touch, with Tony.

After one strikeout leads to another, and by this time, I’m a bit tipsy myself, these two jacklegs hop into a cab and head home. You think I’d know my fate as the intermingling taxi odors create a blend of defeat. The cab reeks of misguided testosterone, Miller Lite and a Calcutta marketplace. And all the while, Tony is on his cell phone bragging about ‘how fuckin’ hot these chicks at the bar were,’ to his college buddy Sully. If these chicks were really that hot, Tony, how bout you start making some moves and fill this empty cab? The cabbie knows Tony isn’t getting any, he sees no female in the backseat and he can clearly spot the puke stain on Tony’s pink shirt. Couldn’t he too give me a quick hint? A honk of the horn? Anything?

It doesn’t help at all that he puts on that Lou Bega classic, "Mambo #5", he knows I love that tune. Baw ba baw ba baw ba ba, baw ba! Fuck him. I know, I know, you think I’d pick up on the smell of chorizo and desperation on his hands, but I don’t. I’m tipsy myself, it’s dark and his technique is damn believable. I promise you this though, you give me the heads up and I vow to lay as limp as a stray cat’s carcass when he tries to pull this bullshit again next weekend.