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Thursday, December 22, 2011

A tale of the legendary Wing Man

[To be read in a British Accent]

It was a drunken night in one of Downtown Orlando's many venues. A band of brothers, not to be confused with HBO's fantastic World War II depiction of camaraderie through a group of young men enduring the effects of war on the senses, but to be thought of as the typical contemporary group of "broskies" hanging out and to quote the greatest bandana-extension helmet wearing man alive, Brett Michaels: looking for nothing but a good time.

At the clubs the midnight hour approached. Females intoxicated, males emasculated by failed attempts at potential future coitus with the aforementioned, the "broskies" not yet exposed to this true battlefield of drunken lust carried on like a pride of lions entering the nearest watering hole during an African plateau drought seeking to establish dominance. In fact just like lions, establishing their territories via urine. Consequently, tougher to contain the higher the blood alcohol level content gets, like a single person bathroom in a nursing home filled with geriatrics with bladder issues, males flock to release this pressure at the nearest water closet. It’s a truly riveting observation.

Following the marking of this territory, the "broskies" embark on a journey of immediate empty and skewed fulfillment, and morning regrets.

Out on the dance floor, many ritual mating habits to entice a potential mate are on display. Both sexes simultaneously engaging in what could only be described as "seizures" by the professionals teaching at Oxford's medical school, truly a sight to behold for sober eyes.

Carrying on, the "broskies" flocked to the main bar facing this metaphorical cattle herded in a square footage reflective of a Manhattan flat. On display, bodies upon bodies moving in and out of rhythm, doing a little dance; potentially making a little love and getting down tonight, getting down to the down to the floor, Ludicrous.

While watching this moving mass of ridiculously tight dresses for the ladies and popped collars for the gents, reeking of an orgy of various smells ranging from the finest perfumes to the strongest musky odor and fag smoke, drinks are ordered unrelentingly by the "broskies".

Scoping out the females of this mass within a flickering light that switches on and off to the Trance, like Magellan with his fleet; looking for new lands to anchor, explore and conquer. After a brief period, one of the 'shipmates' spots an area to where he confidently sends one of his crew as a 'landing' party, much like Star Trek where the ensign might never return aboard... a small herd of the opposite sex seems to be talking wildly about this particular 'broskie envoy' who is just one of the cells within this body of "broskies". Through a 'bro-pull' of the arm, the shipmate pushes this individual towards the women pack.

Noticing that one of the females seemed particularly interested in him as if he was a brand new Louis Vuitton purse marked down by 90%, he charges straight ahead towards her. In a drunken lack of inhibition which would have otherwise kept him at bay in any other scenario, he is courageous enough to strike up small insignificant chatter. Showing intense interest, the next orchestrated move is to get her to the dance floor. Consequently, he asks her to dance and she obliges.

Unbeknownst to him, after having consumed enough Jack with his 'broskies' to have his blood flammable if lighting a cigarette, his breath does not reflect his rather strikingly handsome male ruggedness. Out on the middle of the dance floor with his prey he pulls her closer in a foolish attempt to exchange small words. After realizing this is becoming more and more like a shouting game between two deaf old men playing chess at a park bench, he seizes verbal communication and commences operation Pink Dawn. He brings her ever so close to his own body, feeling every curve of her structure until amidst the distance at the end of the dance floor he spots his fellow mate whom had sent him out to conquer waving him down.

The light is flickering, the place is jam packed, he is having a hard time trying to decipher what his buddy is gesturing to him from afar. After some strategic re-positioning of the female to where he can clearly see his buddy through the crowd, he realizes that the signal is intended to let him know that his breath is kicking like a donkey. Unfortunately, there is no way to remedy this as he is on the dance floor about to seal the deal, but now he is unsure of his next move because of his own awareness of his halitosis thanks to his 'broski' wingman. He signals from the dance floor to his buddy on standby that there is nothing he can do...

When suddenly, charging through the packed mass on the dance floor, on a mission impossible [insert MI theme music] his mate inconspicuously dances through the crowd like the French antagonist, Francois Toulour, danced through lasers in Ocean's twelve while unwrapping the solution to what could possibly bring the entire operation back online; delicious sweet mint flavored stride gum.

He reaches his buddy, with the most audacious gyrations and jukes not seen since Jim Brown and Walter Peyton while flawlessly dancing like Michael Jackson in ‘Don't stop 'til you get enough’:

While simultaneously unwrapping this ever so important ‘golden ticket’ of a piece of gum. When he gets within a distance reasonable enough for a smooth hand off like a spontaneous last minute lateral pass that will lead to the endzone in a last second decision; this piece of gum is handed off ‘Houdini’ style right into the hands of his chap. A winning strategy as the female prey remained oblivious to the recent exchange which will go down in history as the tale of the greatest wingman.

Once his breath was mentos...

...fresh, he moved in for the kill and claiming victory as the female prey was quite responsive to his approach. However, little did he know that his good old friend “Jack” who had hitherto given him the courage to follow through and the bad breath which lead to the aforementioned greatest tale had also skewed his vision.

In the darkness of the flickering lights and the heat of the moment, this prey looked to be delicious and ready to be consumed at will.

Even after having been warned by this great athletic dancing wingman for the ages of the prey's looks; he decided to follow through with the exchange of contact information. Eventually for a follow up meeting which led to a sobering disappointment. Pun intended. However, being a true champ; he goes through the entire encounter making the best of it and thus claiming victory for laying down a superb 5.5/10.

This ladies and gents; is the short amazing tale of the legendary wing man based on true events, but embellished in metaphorical grandiosity.

[/To be read in a British Accent]

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