Wedding Crasher

It's Thursday morning and I am flying tomorrow. I have not started packing. This should not surprise you. I probably won't pack. I will drink tonight, I will wake up late for work tomorrow. I will forget to pick up my suit from the dry cleaners. My mom won't be home to bring it to me. I used to forget my lunch a lot. Other kids would do this too and then they would just starve because their parents didn't love them. Lisa Moeller would drop everything and drive me a lunch to school. This probably happened once a week. Sometimes she would even just run to McDonald's and bring me a Happy Meal to school. The other kids were jealous. I think more than once I intentionally left my lunch at home so Lisa would bring me McDonald's.

But I was told in one of my bullshit Kelley classes that goals are more likely to be achieved when you write them down. Strategic, Trackable, Attainable, Realistic…the star method. So I am going to write out my packing list for this weekend and hopefully it will come true.

Dave's packing list 10/16…

(3) pills Xanax and (4) shooters vodka
I don't know why it is that when I am booking travel I am so cost conscious. I probably could have flown Virgin for an extra $50 and that would have come with mood lighting, movies and probably a stewardess to give me an Alpha Phi handshake. Instead I have a middle seat on a Spirit flight which is about as comfortable as passing a kidney stone. As much as I would like to party all flight and take an uber directly to Butch McGuire's, I think I would probably be better off to go full Whitney Houston and just drown myself in vodka and Xanax until I collapse. Hopefully there isn't any standing water in 12B.

(1) Pikachu Onesie
Spolier Alert: I got a Pikachu onesie to wear for Halloween this year. It is also the only yellow thing I own.  I used to have a fuck ton of Iowa hoodies, but somehow none of them made it to LA. I could hit up my mom and tell her to send my dad with an extra (we are meeting in Evanston for the Northwestern/Iowa game) but that would be boring. Plus, my Pikachu onesie arrived yesterday VACUUM SEALED. Do you know how much space that will save? As it is, I'm only going to bring a backpack and it needs to fit a suit and all the other shit I need for the weekend. Spirit charges the price of a black market kidney to even carry on. Also the image of me drinking a 40 in a pokemon costume on the Union Pacific North brings a smile to my face.

(1) Suit
The last time I wore this suit I was covered in blood, sweat and tears…not like I worked hard for anything, but because I blacked out, face planted several times and cried when I couldn't get into my hotel room. Then I wadded up said suit and threw it into the corner of my closet. I took aforementioned wadded ball to the dry cleaners yesterday and handed it to a small Asian woman. I fully expect this suit to look brand new when I pick it up tomorrow morning.

That's it. That's literally all I'm taking, everything else can be figured out at a Nordstrom Rack on State Street. Now that we've got that out of the way, let's focus on what I hope to accomplish this weekend. The last time I was in Chicago for 24 hours I had no money and no job. I spent the day riding around on a city bike instead of doing molly bumps in the back of an Uber Stretch.

How do I want to frame this article? How about a decision tree of the choices I will face this weekend? This sounds fun.

First choice: You land at O'Hare at 12:15 Saturday morning. Go to the hotel or hit up the bars…

On one hand I'll be tired as balls after flying on an abortion of a flight.

On the other, you have to take advantage of bars that are open until 5am…

What I will likely do…
Oh you know the fucking second we touch down I am sending a mass text to everyone in the 312 asking who wants to go out. It will mostly be crickets because people in Chicago don't go hard anymore, but there will be one person that responds 'at the Mid' and this will be all it takes. Next thing you know, I'm running around the bar slamming shots of Patron with a goddamn back pack on. WHo is this playing? Crizzly? What's a Crizzly? I DON'T CARE BECAUSE THIS ACID I JUST TOOK TASTES GREAT.

This will lead me to getting to my dad's hotel room at roughly 6am.

'Why are you here so late and why are you sweating?'

Um…my flight was delayed a lot and I took the train into town to save money. The train was hot.

'Get in the shower we have to go to the game soon.'

Sounds good.

Second choice: Drink before the game or naw…

On one hand I'll be tired as fuck and I have a long ass day ahead.

On the other, I'll be in a goddamn Pikachu onesie and you have to take advantage of being able to drink on public transportation.

What I likely will do…
In what fucking world do you think I will not be slamming drinks on the train, on Northwestern's campus and potentially in the bleachers at the game. This will be tricky though, because my dad doesn't necessarily endorse heavy drinking at 8 o clock in the morning, so my drink of choice will have to be something heavy, that doesn't look heavy…like a Four Loko. There is not a chance on God's green Earth that my dad knows what Four Loko is. Thus, drinking 2 of these puppies will only raise moderate alarm from him.

If Iowa wins, I will probably coerce my dad to take the purple line back to Wrigleyville where we will have a few beers at Sluggers and likely take some batting practice upstairs. It won't go well. I wouldn't be entirely upset if we made it to the Lou Malnatti's on Wrightwood.

Third choice: After sending my father back to Indiana (via train) do I keep drinking or nap up for the wedding?

On one hand, my hotel room will be ready for check in. I will be drunk. I will have no slept since Thursday evening. Hotel beds are universally more comfortable than my bed.

On the other…THE FUCK outta here.

What I will likely do…
My buddy from Wisconsin will be getting into town just about the time I get back downtown. We will have roughly 4 hours to kill before the wedding. This is quite honestly the responsible decision. If I laid down for a nap at 2pm, I assure you I would wake up at 9pm in a panic. The prudent thing to do is for Dan and I to go to Benchmark in Old Town and rack up a $400 tab while we watch the afternoon games. From this spot I can probably also enlist the services of a task rabbit. "BRING ME A BELT AND CONDOMS YEE PEASANT. IF YOU BRING ME A GRAM THERE IS AN EXTRA 100 IN IT FOR YOU.

Fourth choice: When I inevitably spend too long at the bar and I have only enough time for either a shower or to run into a store and buy dress shoes which do I choose…

On one hand, yes the TaskRabbit probably could have gotten me shoes too but I was drunk and forgot. I'm going to get sweaty eventually but at least if I dress up there will be pictures of me looking semi put together.

On the other, I have had 3 frat bros get married to this point. One of them I wore Air Force Ones and the other two I wore dress shoes. The Air Force One wedding I woke up on a boat. The dress shoes weddings, I woke up in a pile of my own blood…both times.

What I'll probably do...
I'll probably do neither and just show up in the Pikachu onesie.

Fifth choice: Do I sneak a bottle of Fireball into the venue?

On one hand, for Christ sake, keep it classy Dave.

On the other, fortune favors the bold.

What I will likely do…
I will know almost every guy at this wedding. For the most part I am tolerated. I will know absolutely zero girls. The girls at this wedding grew up in LaGrange and now they live in the West Loop. I'm not from Illinois and now I live on the west coast. I am positioned well here. People will find me intriguing. I have long hair. I have a bottle of fucking Fireball. I have a hotel room on Michigan Avenue. WHO IS THIS GUY???

Sixth choice: Do I take molly before the wedding?

On one hand, of course not, show a bit of class Dave.

On the other, the groom's father told me his only life advice is 'Marry up.'

What I will likely do…
Oh I will roll. I will roll hard. I will roll hard in a Pikachu costume. This wedding isn't about me. The reception isn't about me. But to be fair, I am probably traveling further than anyone for this wedding. I can have a few pills, it will help me loosen up the dance floor! Who wants to dance with Pikachu! I will spin the grandmothers, I will do rock and roll knee slides. THERE WILL BE CARTWHEELS. I may even try a round off. There is no way this doesn't end with me getting a concussion.

Seventh choice: After I am inevitably kicked out of Moonlight studios, what do I do?

One one hand, I will have probably ruined friendships by this point, probably best to lick my wounds and head back to the Double Tree…

On the other, DOUBLE DOWN MOTHERFUCKER.

What I will probably do…
Butch McGuires! Do people still go there? Is it still a New Trier bar? NT kids are obnoxious as fuck. GO GREEN GO BLUE. Hell, I probably won't be the only one in a Pikachu onesie there. I hope they already have the Christmas lights up, I love that fucking choo choo train. There will probably be sad Notre Dame fans everywhere. I will talk shit. This would probably be a good time to hit up the Michigan girls for more cocaine.

Eighth choice: At some point in the night someone will invite me to a random party, do I go?

On one hand, last time I went to a random house party in Chicago I said "Oh my god you're the dude who fucked a chick in the bathroom of sports in that video!" I was violently thrown out.

On the other hand, I'm sure these random bros have a 'more the merrier policy!'

What I will probably do…
Drunk girls will always tell you to 'come to this party' when they are at some random dude's apartment. I don't know if it's because they want you to come make it weird or if they are actually not conscience of the fact that said dudes are trying to fuck them. I'll probably go to this pre game, say something controversial about the ATO video, find out they were in fact ATOs, get my ass beat and bleed all over myself. Fortunately at this point I will get a call to meet back up with my friends in Wicker Park.

Ninth Choice: Do I try for a 5am bar?

On one hand…Don't.

On the other…I have a problem.

What I will probably do…
I'll arrive in an Uber, he will give me a low rating because I'll ask him something like 'do you find the term anchor baby offensive.' I will walk to the door at Evil Olive and be told I am not allowed to come in. Fuck this guy. Whatever, I'll get some late night pizza and call it a night.

Tenth and final choice: The pizza place doesn't want to serve me.

There is only one option.

I land in Chicago in a few hours everyone, let's have a weekend to remember.

Cool Girl

Pictured: Decent life advice

"Do you want party buns?"

It's Sunday afternoon, Day 2 of CRSSD Fest, a semi-annual San Diego tradition held at waterfront park. It's approximately 119 degrees out and I am desperately seeking shade under a tree, nodding my head to an Oliver Nelson remix of Earth Wind and Fire's 'September.' a twenty something Asian girl is staring down at me inquisitively.

'What are party buns? Is it like a new drug?'

-No like do you want me to tie your hair up in little buns, your friends thought it would be funny.

I look across at Trent and Kevin. Kevin is wearing a Hawaiian shirt that is patterned with the cartoon character Gumby. Trent has opted not to wear a shirt at all today, opting for merely a pair of dad approved slacks, flooded and Dockers. I am the least stylish of the group, wearing a swim suit and a tank top that is emblazoned with the words 'Party Wave' (an old accessory from my BROseidon Halloween costume from a few years ago.)

"Ummm…sure."

-Yay! Ok, hold still.

This is rave culture.

***

As I have become fairly accustomed to doing; I planned an out of town trip at the last minute. As of Friday night at midnight, I had nothing packed, I was drunk and I was scheduled to leave in 8 hours. Why I thought going to the Daily Pint to wait for my drug dealer was a good idea, I'll never know.

As it turns out my dealer was giving himself a night off and sent a prostitute as his proxy. I sat at the bar slugging Racer 5's trying to convince a couple girls to come with me to SD while I waited for said hooker to bring me my molly.

"So you don't have a ticket yet?"

No.

"What about a hotel?"

No.

"How are you getting there?"

Either going with my buddy or taking the train…I guess I could drive, but my tags are expired.

"And when are you leaving?"

6 hours.

"Despite the strength of your argument, we'll pass."

Whatever, their loss.

Around 2am, the lady of the night brought me an Altoids tin full of party favors. I closed my tab and drove home for what I thought would be 5 hours of sleep before hopping in my buddy's car.

Buttt wouldn't you know it, I did that thing in bed where I say to myself, I'm just going to close my eyes for like 2 seconds before setting this alarm. Cut to; me waking up with 17 missed calls at 9am. My ride is already in Anaheim, I'm on my own.

The trip was not off to a strong start.

I load up 2 pink swimsuits, 2 bro tanks, a camping pad and my Altoid tin in the car and started driving south in my illegal car. ETA to San Diego 150 minutes, let's do this.

By noon I was drinking Fireball on the 14th floor of the Best Western plus.

By 2pm I was standing in line with a plastic baggy hiding under my nuts, hoping that Ahmed from Craigslist emailed me my ticket before I got to the front of security.

By 2:07 I had my first ten dollar beer in hand and the first roll was absorbing into the lining of my stomach. I was already ready for shade, with no re-entry privileges, this would be a long day.

A little secret about me is that my least favorite part of a music festival is the music. At Coachella, I prefer the campground. At Lolla, I prefer the after parties. Pretty much any time I go to a concert, I lobby for a party bus or some sort of extended pre game. For me, it's not about the music, it's about the party. Standing in the hot sun, drinking overpriced beers so my buddy can hear the set of some emerging artist that popped up on his Sound Cloud is not my idea of a good time. If left to my devices, I would rage all day and stumble in for the headliners…but I suppose this is why God invented drugs.

In terms of musical taste, I am incredibly basic. The only band I had even heard of from the Saturday line up was 'The Flaming Lips,' and that was only because they did a Super Bowl commercial. I've been listening to that Jack U song on repeat for like 6 weeks now and I still throw on that one Sebastian Ingrosso hit from 2012 on at pre games, but I join these weekend excursions because anything can happen.

***

I'm now sitting in the lawn while Anna puts the finishing touches on my party buns. I look ridiculous, two people have already stopped by and taken a snap of me. I wonder if they make it onto the San Diego story. A man covered in tattoos walks by wearing a tank top that says "Eat pussy, chug whiskey, hail satan" it's easily the most impressive article of clothing at the fest. Even the naked women with taped up nipples blush. This is rave culture.

***

I finally started to get a solid buzz/roll going about halfway through Client Liaison, an Australian electro-duo with a pension for 80's music. A girl sporting severe under butt approaches me and asks to get on my shoulders. Confused, I look around and note that there aren't many people around. 'Would you like me to just move over a bit, we're literally in the front row' I offer.

"I just kinda want to touch somebody."

Shoulders it is. The drummer smashes a Foster's, he then produces a second and tosses it into the crowd. Kevin reaches up and catches it one handed. The two of us summarily finish the beer within 5 seconds. We are granted approval from the band in the sign of a thumbs up. This is why I go to concerts.

I took this forward momentum and picked up the pace on the drinking. Being sober at a concert is kinda hellish for me since I am typically afraid to talk to strangers unless I am absolutely blasted. Fortunately after 10 beers, I turn into Casanova (in my head) and start doing things like challenge girls to cartwheel contests, ask girls to give my inflatable shark toy a kiss and host impromptu dance offs.

Next on the main stage was St. Lucia which I thought was an island in the Caribbean but is actually a pretty sick rock band out of Brooklyn. In fact, I enjoyed them so much that I decided to face the rest of my my molly and enter the Stratosphere. What followed was some weirdness that can only be described as a fever dream. I tried to track down some ketamine, Trent and Kevin fought for the love of our bartender, at one point I borrowed am girl's ear rings to re-pierce my ears. (I think they're now infected) We all ran around begging for body paint and temporary tattoos and I came out of a blackout at a Jamie XX show and felt like I was in purgatory.

I tracked back for a bit of the Zhu set, but realized it was time for me to pull the rip cord when I asked a girl if she could help me and my friends settle a little debate.

"Hey, we're trying to figure out this huge debate and were wondering if you could help us…"

-Sure what's up?

"Can you help us figure out who is the best kisser."

*EYE ROLL* Go home you're drunk.

Drunk indeed.

We get back to the hotel circa 11ish, and I finish off all contraband in sight. Kevin's brother and his friend TJ are intent on going to a warehouse. At this point I had exceeded my fill of neon painted Riverside imports so I campaigned for a Gaslamp bar.

"Let's go to a warehouse party until like 6 in the morning!"

"Can't we just go to Gaslamp and talk to a bunch of wealthy white former sorority girls?"

I lost.

First we went to a pre game, which was actually just a few people sitting on the floor tripping on DMT. I picked this as my cue to leave. I hopped in an uber and went to a bar in Gaslamp to hit on white girls.

I showed up to a spot called the waterfront. It was amazing, all of the people that hours ago were covered in body paint and temporary tattoos had showered and thrown on dark jeans and polos; miniskirts and summer dresses. The juxtaposition was striking, it was like going from a burning man party to a college crush dance. People were attractive now after removing all the dirt and sweat. The only empirical evidence that these were even the same people were the bright neon wristbands adorning everyone in the bar.

I ordered a beer and a shot. A girl in a Marisa Cooper Lacoste asked me why I did it.

"I dunno, I saw it on season 2 of The Wire."

"OMG I'm watching that right now!!"

"Do you want to go to my hotel's hot tub and talk about it? It's right next door."

"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?"

"I am very drunk and on a lot of drugs."

"Me too."

I wish I could say that Sunday morning I woke up and immediately started smashing Fireball. I wish I could tell you I accepted the offer of the bros in the elevator that had a bunch of extra blow. I wish I could tell you I stuck around to watch Kygo play sunset and then drove to Oddball Comedy fest in Irvine where I had a backstage pass for the Amy Shumer show waiting for me.

I took a half measure. Mike Ehrmantraut would be disappointed.

In fact I took 4 shots, shotgunned 3 beers and drank 2 more. I then wandered through an Italian street fair to get a chicken caesar wrap and walked into the festival. Kevin ordered me one more beer. Apparently he thought hitting the 10 drink mark by noon would keep me in San Diego for the day.

But it is so hot and I am sweating so much that I think my BAC is actually negative. I run into a fountain to cool off and then I see Kevin and Trent talking to a few Asian girls with their hair in funny miniature buns.

"They're done! You look awesome!"

I pull out my phone and check out my reflection. My hair is in two small French buns. Apparently she has also given me a Hello Kitty sticker.

"Do you like it?"

-Uh ya, I guess.

"Hey can we ask you something?"

-Sure.

"What do guys like more a Coachella Girl or a Stage Coach girl?"

-What do you mean?

"Like rave girls or sorority girls"

I have to pinch myself to make sure this is real. I've been having this debate with my friends for years and I have always thought this. Rave girl is much closer to 'Cool Girl' from Gone Girl. Rave Girl does drugs, gets fucked up, strip waxes her pussy raw. Rave girl is sexy, rave girl shows off her ass and cleavage. Rave girl has no body fat.

Rave girl also is a little bit exotic, might have a vowel at the end of her last name. She probably smokes, has weird piercings, might even get down with tattoos.

Conversely, Stage Coach girl is the girl next door. She's blonde, she drinks beer, she had brothers growing up. She's fun, but in a wholesome, midwest charm kind of way. Her dad has money and influence. A social climber would choose Stage Coach girl and marry up. But then again, Rave girl doesn't give a fuck what you do…you probably have to hide your drug use from Stage Coach girl.

Rave girl is the Stones, Stage Coach girl is the Beatles. Conventional wisdom tells you to fuck one and marry the other, because you don't want to bring home a girl with a tongue ring to mom.

I probably only have a few of these music festivals left in my life. I think I'll go to one more Coachella and two more Snowglobes. That's probably it. They are taxing on the body, and I hate feeling the way I do right now. (Total dogshit, it's now Tuesday afternoon.)

There is a time and a place for both a rave girl and a sorority girl…so I hedge.

-"What about a CRSSD Girl?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's the best of both worlds. Party all day, clean up and throw on a dress. It's the perfect marriage of what I look for in a girl."

The two girls gushed at me for a moment as if I had just revealed to them the meaning of life. In that exact moment I was never more sure than I could have had a threesome in broad daylight.

I said goodbye to Kevin and Trent, went back to the hotel to roll up my camping pad and wad all of my dirty bro tanks into a ball. I reluctantly started driving north up the 405 back home to Venice.

Sure I could have blacked out, left San Diego at 3 in the morning and made it to work on time, but I have a big weekend coming up. I have a wedding in Chicago, and well we all remember what happened last time I went to one of those. Until then my friends...

Life's too short for decaf

Proof of my current situation

It's Friday and I'm trying to do about a million things at once. Let's rank them in order of importance.

1. Acquire drugs for this weekend.
2. Acquire a ticket for this weekend.
3. Buy a new pair of Rainbows for this weekend.
4. Source a Pikachu costume from China.
5. Think of a witty way to tell all of the haters of my post yesterday that it was clearly fucking sarcasm.
6. Scheme a way to steal some registration tags in lieu of a renewal fee.
7. Convince Gatorade to bring back the flavor Cherry Rush.
8. Purchase web domain AlwaysWestofLincoln.com
*
*
*
1,000,981. Pay my parking tickets, credit card bill, back taxes and car insurance premium.

But really none of that shit matters because right now I am getting sick. I can feel that dull pain growing behind my eyes. My boss has been displaying symptoms of full blown ebola for 3 days now but she won't go home, because her boss is a tyrannical dictator. Every time she sneezes billions of micro particles carrying Ebolic Hemorrhagic Fever disease come shooting in my direction. I'm pounding Airborne like I was smashing mushroom caps last weekend, yet somehow I feel like I'll still come up short.

The obvious course of action is to stay home this weekend and rest up. I mean, I'm traveling cross country next weekend for a wedding. I'm going to a big college football game with my dad, don't I want to be 100% for that?

Alas, promises have been made and I am not in the business of flaking. I will go to this music festival in San Diego and I will have fun. But of course I will take it easy right? I mean I've done hard drugs 2 weekends in a row, God knows what Chicago has in store for me. Maybe I can just rotate beers and waters at the concert and enjoy the music tomorrow. That would be the prudent option.

Fuck that. The only concession I will be making this weekend is that I may mix in a little Super Orange Emergen-C in with my coke. I will go balls to the wall Saturday and Sunday, this will artificially keep my illness at bay, but when I board the SurfRider home Sunday night my body will collapse like a house of fucking cards.

By 6am Monday morning at Manhattan Beach studios I will look akin to a decomposing corpse. People will see me looking like dog shit and I will be sent home. I will spend the day in bed doing my classic Netflix and chill/triple masturbation marathon and then I will sleep until noon on Tuesday. Then I'll come in for a half day in a performance that will be considered to be braver than Caitlyn Jenner's transition.

But why would I do this to myself you ask? Because life is too short for fucking decaf. (OOOOH you like that title pay off? Is it cathartic? Almost like that Killers song where he goes the entire FUCKING song and then he finally says it….ALLL THESE THINGS THAT IIIIIIII HAVE DONE bow bow doo doo bow...bow bow doo doo bow)

To be fair I've been obnoxiously selling the shit out of this all day. If I fail to show up Monday, no one will assume it's because I found a San Diego State student that dragged me out to Gaslamp. They will actually think I am dead. Then I will answer from the Best Western Plus in San Diego when they call and I will tell them I am in the emergency room and I am so sorry I forgot to call.

All will be forgiven, they'll probably even offer to pay. This ebola is THEIR FAULT. It has nothing to do with the fact that I was borderline coming down with something and then went on a bender that would make Amy Winehouse blush. But I digress.

Eventually I'll recover, I'll go to work for a few days, I'll go to a wedding in Chicago, I'll fly back and hopefully my Pikachu costume will have come in the mail. I'll probably senselessly repeat this cycle of absurdity until my world comes collapsing down all around me. At which point, I'll go to rehab, join the military, quit drinking and turn into an adrenaline junkie. This could happen tomorrow or it could happen in 12 years, but until it does, I'm living every day on 11.

See I have a plan.

Life ends. I will die some day. Before I die, I want to do things that most people haven't done. I want to hike half dome, I want to fly an airplane, I want to dive the great barrier reef, I want to travel the world, I want to write a movie, I want to hunt a bear, I guess a bit of partying too. And I want to fucking chronicle all of this shit and spend the rest of my life telling stories.

I don't know how to get paid to do all of that stuff, so it appears that I'm on my own. It's fine, no one promised me the key to life's adventures would be easy. I was promised a 60k Market Research job that never came, and sure it would be easier if I was some sort of #brand guy that traveled around the world going to cool events with an expense account. But to quote indie auteur Mark Duplass "the calvary is not coming." There is no all inclusive package planned by burn-out college students that will help me experience life, so I press on.

Every weekend night I stay in and 'relax' I am racked with guilt. I think about all of the people all over the world doing cooler things than me. I think about a cheap Spirit flight I could have hopped on that would have taken me to a city I've never seen. I could have stayed in a hostel for $7 a night and met a bunch of people from all over the world. But I stayed in and watched a re-run of the Bojack Horseman Christmas Special.

That's not a terrible night, but it's a Monday. Saturdays are for doing stuff.

This Saturday, I am going to do stuff. Every Saturday for the rest of my life I am going to try to do something I have never done before. This Saturday I am going to roll at sunset while Kygo plays Firestone next to the Pacific Ocean. Next Saturday I'm going to tailgate on the Union Pacific North to Ryan Field for Iowa/Northwestern. Two Saturdays after that I'm going to party in a Pikachu costume.

You know what that means?

I have a free day! The 24th! What should we do? You want to go sailgating? Should we rent Houseboats on Lake Mead? I've never been to Terranea in Palos Verdes. I've never seen the LA roller derby girls.

I'm going to feel like dogshit on Monday. I'm going to feel like dogshit most Mondays the rest of my life. But I'll get through them and then one day when I'm 50, I'll sit back and think…damn, I did a lot of cool shit.

The Surprising Feminism of ATO

By now you have undoubtedly seen the infamous video clip of a bizarre 'sex party' happening at the Bloomington chapter of Alpha Tau Omega or ATO. Mere hours after the video went viral, the national fraternity had shut down the chapter indefinitely. The hot takes and think pieces came rolling in.

Allegations of sexual hazing ran rampant as the video appears to show a man being encouraged to go down on a woman in front of all of his shirtless, chanting bros. Some took it further, asserting we were witnessing some sort of sexual crime. The problem with both of these trains of thought is that we are once again, not taking the female perspective into account.

Since the beginning of time it has been a woman's right to operate her own body as she sees fit. If she so choses to leverage her sexuality to make a living, who am I to pass judgment? Just last week, former stripper turned Hip Hop fashion icon Amber Rose, hosted a Slut Walk through Downtown Los Angeles in an attempt to shine a light on the growing trend of slut shaming in America. It's bullshit, the double standard that exists between men and women. In a year when Magic Mike XXL becomes a top 10 film, we would decry these women and the men employing them.

What happened last night was not a crime, it was not hazing. What you witnessed in that video is female empowerment.

Let me walk that back a bit. The two women in the above video are trained professionals. As a former fraternity member at Indiana University, I can personally vouch that 'stripper nights' are not uncommon. It is certainly within a woman's rights to supplement the income she receives working the lunch shift at Night Moves with private gigs. I mean the lasering of shitty c section scars isn't going to pay for itself. The women WANT to be there. The women are paid to be there, and god dammit the women are in charge.

Let's break the video down:
From seconds :01-:19 
We see our protagonist hold 'Tommy' in a UFC-esque full guard. She strategically uses her legs to keep 'Tommy' locked in her groin area. For those familiar with BDSM culture, you will recognize this as a traditional move used by many a dominatrix.

At the :20 mark, you will see that the 2nd stripper punishes 'Tommy' for not putting forth enough cunnalingal effort via vicious kicks to his derriere. Again if there is any sex 'crime' happening in this video, it's that Tommy is half assing it. If Tanya wants to get to climax we're going to need more effort from our pasty boxer shorts wearing Tau.

At the :25 mark we finally get some real brotherly encouragement for Tommy via the classic butt tap. Football players have been using this forever. You can see that after a hetero, non sexual tap to the bottom Tommy really starts to kick into 5th gear.

The truth is, this video is a natural display of repressed sexual adolescence. If anything I'm offended by Tommy's pitiful technique. The real story on display though is not of a bunch of frat bros acting like pigs, it is the bravery of a couple women who subverted gender roles, thus empowering female sexuality.

Enough will be said on the blogs about Tommy in the coming days. Tommy meanwhile, well he's busy putting ATO on his back so we can excuse a little sexual inexperience on his end, so again we will focus on the women.

The line between strippers and prostitutes in Bloomington may be narrow, but the line between shame and empowerment can be blurred to nonexistence.

Call her a fourth wave feminist, call her a hero…whatever you do, don't call her a victim.

The Takeover

Last night I 'played' tennis. I played insomuch as I attempted to hit a green ball with a racket over a net. But in reality I played worse than Andy Samberg in '7 Days in Hell' before he discovered cocaine. I was firing errant shots all over the court, I felt fat. Twice I rocketed balls over the fence onto the Penmar Golf Course in frustration. The only solace I took from the evening was a $5 Blueberry Tart Yogurtland covered in Fruity pebbles and Gummy Worms.

What a fucking mess.

The truth is, that the snacks on my new show are out of control and I am frequently bored as fuck at work. The way I deal with this boredom is either hitting on the hot accountant or walks to the kitchen to grub on God knows what. A few days ago I discovered that hot accountant is married, so my kitchen excursions became even more frequent. Sure summer is over, but when you're single there is really no reason not to be absolutely shredded. And since I am skipping the Rock n Roll half marathon to go get blasted in Chicago next weekend my cardio has bottoming out. The only solution to this problem calls for drastic measures.

Amphetamines.

This morning I took 30 mg of Adderall to render myself unable to consume food. While it worked, it did have some unintended consequences.

1. I decided this morning I am going to get my pilot's license. I'm going to get my LSA. Do you know why? Because it's the lowest barrier to entry to something bad ass. It's the BMW 1 series of pilot's licenses. You can get it with 20 hours of flight time for around 4 grand. This license enables you to fly anywhere during daylight hours. You can only go like 200 miles per hour in a light plane with one passenger. But riddle be this, what chick isn't s'ing your D after you fly her from Santa Monica airport to Santa Barbara for a wine tasting?

2. I'm going to South or Central America for Christmas. I can't go to Indy, I just can't. I apologize to my family, it's just a waste of vacation time. I was just there, it was fun, I got to swim. It was hot out. Dad grilled! The concept of going there when I could just as easily get a $500 round trip flight to El Salvador and hike in some Mayan ruins and live in a hostel for $2 a day. I just ordered a massive world map for the wall in my room. The goal is to put as many pins in that bitch as possible. Anyone can come, but this trip is going to be down and dirty and cheap as shit.

3. I want to expand the blog.

Obviously, I am a man that requires instant gratification. I am yet to order a fan off of Amazon because I can't possibly imagine going another night without a fan…even though I KNOW that every retail shop in Los Angeles is sold out. It's been 4 weeks and I still don't have a fan. I can't get my pilot's license today. I can't fly to Ecuador today, BUT I can lay out a plan for expanding this here blog with the ultimate goal of gaining enough notice to write for one of the big boys.

So here's the deal, for the first time I want to open up the blog to other voices. I'm sure you are all sick of hearing the ramblings of my drunken misadventures at this point. I'd like a fresh perspective. Tell me your tales of #CrimingWhileWhite. Write recaps of Party Down South. I don't give a shit, use this as a forum to flex your creativity. I'm sure you have questions, so let's move down to a hands FAQ I made.

What can I write?
Whatever the fuck you want. I don't have ads on this site, no one makes any money. It's for fun. I won't publish hate speech, but you can be as UN-PC as you want. (Example of Hate Speech: "Why I hate Jews" Example of something UN-PC "Why I love dating Jewish chicks") You don't even have to agree with me!

But I have a corporate job bro, I can't be running around talking about cocaine benders…
All good, use a pseudonym. Send your articles to me and I will post it anonymously on your behalf. I'm extremely good at keeping secrets. Unless it's some juicy gossip about someone having an abortion or something. I'll probably leek that. But for the purpose of anonymously writing on this site, I got you.

Will you edit me?
Not really. I will probably correct your spelling and grammar so you don't look like an idiot. But I would never change your content without consulting you. If something you submit isn't funny enough we can work together to make it better or just bury it. It's surprisingly harder than it looks to make living like an absolute degenerate entertaining.

Will I get paid?
Ha! Negative. But you will get first dibs on my couch when you visit LA. But I'll probably buy you lunch and then not Venmo you later for half of it, because people that do that are the fucking worst.

But for real, why are you doing this?
Well to be fair, any time someone else posts about my blog I get a few hundred more views. It's an easy way of growing exponentially. But also I know a lot of people like to write but need a forum. So many people ask me "hey will you write about this?" or "I want to start a blog." Well now you don't need to start one, you don't need to send your shit off to BroBible or Betches. Or you can do that, but you can start here with incredibly low stakes. Stop bullshitting about how you're going to write a novel some day and just throw up some word vomit on my blog. It's incredibly easy.

Fuck yes, I'm in…what now?
Email me (dbmoelle@gmail.com) an idea for a post…or just send me a post. Think of a creative pseudonym if you can't hide behind 'satirical comedy writer' in your chosen profession. I'm relying on you guys. I only have one weekend a week, which results in one post about one person's drunken debauchery. Remember, style is important but you don't have to mimic me. Don't use names unless your homies are cool with it. Outside of that, the world is yours. Let's do this! The takeover begins now.

Tripping Sack

Certain feelings are easier to describe than others.

For example, this morning when I put on a new pair of 6 inch inseam polo chinos that cost more than most car insurance premiums, I could literally feel centuries of white privilege and arrogance cascading over me. Honestly, I expected a Kappa girlfriend and a Fiji bid to spontaneously appear. This is a feeling I know well. It's easy for me to paint a vivid picture for you.

What is a hell of a lot harder to describe is the feeling of going to the desert and eating a fuck ton of mushrooms. It's an experience rather foreign to me, but if you'll stick with me, I'll do my best.

A plan to go to Joshua Tree was concocted at 12:30AM last weekend while standing in line for James Beach. I think my molly was just about to kick in and I was trying to convince everyone that we could just drive to Yosemite and hike half dome. (According to the over confidence there was likely cocaine involved too)

"I don't give a fuck about any lotteries. We drive up Friday night, sleep outside the park. Enter at 4am and just go climb that thing. I climbed Mt. Whitney with a permit but I didn't see a ranger the entire time. Permits are a hoax."

-We can't just drive to Yosemite and do half dome on a whim. It takes months of planning.

"Yes we can! We'll dress appropriately, bring a lot of water and then at the top we'll take a picture that will get lots of intstagram likes."

-You know people die there…

"Ya people die from drugs and drinking and driving too fast. Has that stopped us before?"

*Silence*

"Ok well how about we go to Joshua Tree?"

-Deal.

And that's how an LA mmi-trip is born.

Going to Joshua Tree is easy as shit. If you go during the busy season you have three options.

1. You can wake up at like 5am and get to one of the coveted campgrounds in the park on a first come first serve basis.
2. You can hike your shit a mile off the road and back country camp (for free) Note: Coolers do not roll well in the desert.
3. You can camp at Black rock which allows reservations and has running water.

For this particular trip we chose option 3 because I like sleeping in and I liked the idea of an actual toilet to vomit in if the shrooms didn't agree with me.

Once you have established a place to stay, you just need to steal a bunch of camping gear from a friend and stop at a grocery store in Yucca Valley for Whiskey and beer. Then you're done! You can go into the park, rock climb, trail hike or just start getting fucked up. There are no rules!

***

My roommate decided to join our quest at the last minute which was cool because she has a jeep with no doors or roof. A vape pen and a few sour patch edibles assisted us on our two hour journey east toward the desert.

We arrived and rendesvoued with the rest of our group. At the Hidden Valley campground we participated in some light bouldering/heavy scrambling. At this point we may have smoked a little too much pot, because we somehow convinced ourselves that there was a native american named EagleHawk that lived on top of a very steep rock, but if you could successfully climb to him, he would give you the strongest mushrooms in the world.

Ya, probably not a good idea to smoke and climb.

After a day in the park, we did a quick Walmart run for necessities. I think that trip went something like this…

"We need Hot Dogs, buns, firewood and ice."

-Oh and beer.

'Whiskey too!'

: Guys I think we better get a box of Franzia.

Can we get Cheez it Duos?

"Guys, I don't give a fuck what you throw in this cart, go nuts."

Cut to $200 later…

Case of Bud Light, liter of Bushmills, box of red Franzia, 24 pack of hot dogs, Jalapeño kettle chips, 3 flats firewood, 2 bags of ice, dozen donuts, 1 can chili, sriracha infused ketchup, 3 diet Rock Stars, a loaf of bread, trash bags, wet whipes, a 5 pound bag of Skittles, Mean Girls 2 and a BB gun.

"Wait a second, why the fuck did we get a box of wine?" Whatever.

I'm kidding, I put back the BB gun, but I really didn't want to.

As one does when you get back to the campground we immediately started drinking and then assessed the neighbor situation. To our right was a high school field hockey team, it was not immediately clear if this was some planned team bonding activity or a full blown lesbian orgy. There were 6 of them in one tent, so it really could have gone either way. To our left was an entire fucking Bangladeshi village.

I'm typically not a stickler for the rules, which clearly stated that there were to be no more than 6 people and 2 cars per campsite, but when you have 30 naked children running around shouting hindu catch phrases in Bengali…that can border on absurd.

So, no neighbor involvement, whatever. We had a solid group of five and we had a fat sack of magic mushrooms waiting for us.

I had never really 'done mushrooms' before. Sure I had eaten them, I had some just a couple weeks ago at a concert, but it has never really been the catalyst of my entire weekend. I would describe the time right before it as similar to when you went to your girlfriend's house in high school when her parents were out of town…

'Soooo, should we have sex now?'

-Sure.

YAAAAAAAS.

Now I had spent the week in Yahoo Answers forums (the most reliable place for advice on the internet)   researching exactly how much I should take for an optimal experience. The general consensus from teenagers in Iowa seemed to be right around 1.5 grams. I was understandably thrown for a loop when I was distributed my allotment in 'caps and stems.'

Start with 2 caps and 2 stems, you can always do more.

But what is the weight? What is the difference between a cap and a stem? Peter from Dubuque didn't mention what to do if I didn't have a scale! I'm so fucked.

I ate my seemingly small portion and sat around waiting for something miraculous to happen. I continued grilling hot dogs, staring at the fire, drinking beer.

Nothing.

Clearly I hadn't taken enough.

I've been told my entire life to stop being so impatient. I've been burned a thousand times by this exact scenario. Drank too much to play catch up? Blacked out. Smoked too much before a 3d movie? Slept through it. Ate way too much molly before a show? Spent the entire concert sweating in a corner begging my heart not to explode. Learned my lesson right?

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK I DID?
A. Listened to my friends, enjoyed a few more beers while taking in the beautiful surroundings.
B. Took a small hit of marijuana to speed up the process, as recommended on reddit.com/r/shrooms
C. Taken a walk to my neighbors campground, discussed South Asian cultures and customs.
D. DEMANDED THE REST OF THE BAG AND FINISHED IT.

Well D, obviously…and a little B. I guess some A too, but mostly D.

What happened next was I noticed it was pitch black but for the stars. The stars were so bright and I felt like they were moving around. In fact the stars looked like they were little cars on a freeway driving around the sky. I stared at them for so long that I realized I was drooling on myself. I tried to snap to and then I noticed that the entire sky seemed to be an umbrella over my head, but wait a minute, no, I'm in a giant planetarium.

"Dude, Big Wave you are TRIPPING SACK."

Tripping sack? What do you mean?

"It's like tripping balls, but the word sack is way funnier."

This sent me over the edge. I fell out of a chair and started laughing hysterically.

"Omg, was that an actual ROFL? "(Pronounced roffle)

I was laughing so hard my insides were starting to cramp. The fire, the stars, the burning man Diplo set we were listening to. It was all incredible. I felt like my spirit was simultaneously occupying multiple universes.

"What time is it?"

8:30.

"Wasn't it 8:30 like 3 hours ago last time I asked?"

That was about a minute ago.

"Whoa."

I think you took too much man.

"Me too."

Now there can also be a dark side to tripping hard. At some point on a return trip from the bathroom, all 30 of the Bangladeshi children ascended on our camp. I know now that they probably thought they were just taking a short cut to their camp…at the time I thought I was under attack from the cast of Battle Royale or those creepy undead kids from Game of Thrones.

"Guys, we have to get the fuck out of here. The children are coming!!"

This was enough to spook my friends into following me. We sprinted for what felt like hours until…

"There, on the right! The abandoned tennis court, it's a safe place."

I don't know why in our warped state of mind, we all unanimously agreed that the abandoned tennis court was the best course of action, but we did. I looked back at our camp. Our fire was burning out of control. I was convinced the children were raping and pillaging the camp site. Pilfering our hot dogs, stealing out sleeping pads.

"Guys, I salvaged the Franzia."

Sarah holds up a bladder of red wine and I instantly knew everything was going to be ok.

The tennis court had rules of course too. (Everything has made up rules when you're tripping) You must not leave the tennis court. You can pee off the side of the tennis court. Every time you slap the bag and chug the wine, you must run a lap around the tennis court. For whatever reason I made the choice to only navigate the tennis court via army crawl and various body rolls. I imagine to the outside viewer I looked like a Jurassic Period Neanderthal. Drugs will do that to a person.

At some junction in the evening we were all seated next to each other talking, laughing, celebrating life. Out of the corner of my eye, I see some sort of authority figure speeding toward us on a golf cart.

"Oh no, he knows we're tripping sack. At the very least there has been a noise complaint and we are getting booted. GAH, I can't possibly drive right now."

As the ranger came closer and closer I started to notice he wasn't slowing down. My God is he going to bowl us over?

He flies past us and pulls right up to the Bangladeshi village, as do three more rangers/border patrol officers in golf carts. It was a god damn sting operation. I watch from the distance as our neighbors were read the riot act. Apparently the 6 people per site rule is something they take pretty seriously at Joshua Tree National Park. The hero rangers rolled up like Jon Snow to dispatch of the impromptu Khan family reunion and we were safe to return to camp.

We left the safety of our tennis court (which was really only about 25 feet from our camp site, so much for all that sprinting) and it was almost time to turn in for the night. As I was getting into my sleeping bag, my roommate grabs me.

"I need to show you something, come with me."

We jog 30 feet or so up a small hill onto a picnic table.

"The moon came out."

It did indeed and it was bigger than I had ever seen, illuminating the desert for dozens of miles in every direction. And at that very moment, it only felt right to howl. I heard a few coyotes in the distance echoing my sentiment.

***

Packing up the next morning, I see one of the field hockey players at the dumpster.

Me: "Did you guys have a nice night?"

Her: "We come out here to smoke weed and not get in trouble. Our parents just think we're super outdoorsy. Last night we smoked too much and went to bed early."

Me: "Ya we were a little inebriated."

Her: "Are you kidding me? You guys were SACKED. Between you and that daycare center next door, we're lucky we smoked enough to kill an elephant or sleeping would have been impossible."

Me: What does sacked mean?

Her: You know, like drunk as balls…

Me: "Is this a common phrase that people use?"

Her: "I dunno, but you guys are going to have a lot of fun driving back to LA in that jeep."

Yes of course, it rains one day a year in the desert and it's the day I drive out in a jeep with no roof or  doors. I spent the entire drive back hungover, crying, trying to figure out a way to connect the sleeves of my sweater directly to the Jeep's heating vent.

Driving 50 up the PCH in a stripped down Jeep is enjoyable.
Driving 90 on the 10 in a torrential downpour is how people contract pneumonia.

We stopped for a corned beef hash at the Crossroads Cafe on our way out of town and I realized how incredible Los Angeles really is. Two hours east, I'm in the desert. 2 hours west and I'm at the fucking Catalina Wine Mixer. 2 hours north, wine country. 2 hours northeast, I'm skiing. 2 hours south I'm partying in Gaslamp. It's really unbelievable that so many adventures are seemingly so attainable. It almost makes me feel guilty for being so content to booze in Venice and stumble over to a divey beach bar.

We made it back to LA. My fucking cable was out, so I just laid on the couch watching my fantasy football live scoring. I took a xanax and passed out for a few hours. I woke up at 2 in the morning, sad that I would have to be at work in a few hours. Before I moved to my bedroom, I checked my email.

-CRSSD fest this weekend in San Diego? Kygo Headlining.

Fuck ya, let's do it.

Starbucks

When I was in 4th grade I was sent away to a weird school for smart kids (actually only one of 8 classes was for the 'gifted' kids, the other 7 were just local kids from the neighborhood going through a normal curriculum) It was unfortunate because this school was in the ghetto and had no funding. While the rich Geist kids got to do kick ass over night camping trips and go to Washington DC; Brook Park field trips were walks down the street to the local post office. The school was 80% black and likely led to my brief high school rap career. About the only thing this school had going for it was a kick ass theatre program.

One year, word came down that we would be staging a rendition of Moby Dick. I was super pumped because I was a shoe-in to play Ahab. I had always wanted to be a villain and killing whales sounded fucking cool. I obviously crushed my audition but when the cast list was posted I found my name not next to Ahab, but some clown named Starbuck the First Mate.

It was a scandal in what can only be rationalized as some sort of WGA-esque diversity casting effort, as some local was set to portray Ahab. I think it was even a girl, that's some Julie Taymor bullshit right there. I was obviously furious with my 4th grade drama teacher, I think I threatened to walk until she described to me the following.

"But Starbuck is the real hero of the story!"

"How so?"

"Ishmael is merely our narrator, really a one note character that exists merely to service the story of Ahab. Ahab on the other side is a mad-man hell bent on revenge. It is only Starbuck that shows any sort of moral complexity in the story, he is the only member of the crew that objects to Ahab's doomed quest and attempts to be the voice of reason. He even ponders mutiny but in the end is so duty bound by his honor and commitment to his captain that he goes along with the plan all the while knowing he is likely sending himself to an early grave."

"You just did this so the parents wouldn't think you were playing favorites to the rich white kids didn't you?"

(Yes, I've always been a piece of shit)

***

Years later affirmative action is still holding my acting career down but Starbuck has remained a major part of my life as it is the coffee chain that every basic bitch (myself included) is well acquainted. Nothing makes me happier than throwing down a 5 spot for a latte that will give me an hour of energy followed by a 15 minute trip to the bathroom.

I think I've had them all at this point because my mom sends me so many Starbucks gift cards that sometimes I don't even put them back in my wallet after I use them to cut lines on Saturday nights.

And because this blog is a public service to you, I have scientifically ranked every latte (seasonal included) option at Starbucks to ensure that you never have a bad caffeine high again.

10. Vanilla Latte
Look, if you're a petite white girl and the only Starbucks option to keep you from getting a thighbrow is a skinny vanilla latte, I respect your hustle…more on this later. But the OG vanilla latte? This drink has to be aborted with a coat hanger. I like lattes and I like vanilla, but this combination is about as inspiring as an inconclusive AIDS test.

9. Chai Latte
This needs to be taken behind the shed and shot in the face like a rabid dog. That's it. Chai Lattes are garbage and Old Yeller is an overrated movie.

8. Pumpkin Spice Latte
PSL season is something I look forward to like I fantasize about my next K-Hole, but for what? PSL is less a drink and more a lifestyle aspiration. A pumpkin spice latte says that you belong to a nice pilates gym, have missionary sex with your upper class white partner and shop at Crate and Barrel. Those are all great in theory, but at the end of the day are all kind of blah. Such is the case with the pumpkin spice latte. It's the epitome of basic…blah.

7. Latte - Iced
An iced latte is like a middle class blue collar friend that is always bitching about the illegals and the gays. You don't want him around all the time because frankly he's offensive. But on occasion he can be refreshing. I don't LOVE iced lattes. but I get it, just like I understand the plight of the middle class dude who wants to marry up. I literally stood up and applauded during the movie Match Point when Jonathan Rhys Myers blasted Scarlett Johansson in the fucking face with a shotgun. Never fuck with a social climber man.

6. Skinny Vanilla Latte
Every guy has gone to Starbucks and heard this order, "Tall skinny vanilla latte, 2 pumps at 132 degrees." I have had to order this for a girl before. It is soul crushing, but you know what? It's not as bad as being actually crushed by a plus sized woman when you're too tired to be on top. Let's face it, most Starbucks drinks are like 14,000 calories and it's tough to hide that shit when you aren't 6 foot 4. Embrace a bland drink so your girl can stay a size 0 and then you can both get on Reddit Voat's FatPeopleHate and shit talk hams together.

5. Latte - Hot
A classic stand by. Like jerking off into your favorite sock or a drunken blow job from your hoe on call; a standard latte isn't anything special but you feel extremely comfortable with it insomuch as you know exactly what to expect. Sometimes you order a drink for practical purposes; I'm tired, I don't want to be. Likewise, sometimes you go home with a chick for practical purposes. I want to have a story tomorrow at brunch. Not every trip to Starbucks needs to be a trip to the fucking spa.

4. Caramel Brûlée Latte
You know that extremely satisfying feeling that comes along with watching some SJW get taken down? The Rolling Stone rape story…watching Patrick Kane stick handle right past some trumped up charges from a University of Buffalo cheerleader? It is just SO fucking great to see someone's soap box evaporate under them, so to is the surprising Caramel Brûlée latte! This drink is almost perfect, in fact I often times go sans whip cream on these festive lattes as it typically just melts immediately, but when my barista offers me whip with the CBL? Oh ya, I treat myself.

3. Gingerbread/Egg Nog/Christmas Cookie Latte
Titty fucking a pair of 34 Cs, that moment when the molly kicks in and a god damn holiday latte…those are my three favorite things in no particular order. The reason these 3 are all grouped together/tied at third place is because they are all available around Christmas and they can be tough to track down. You want a CCL? Better be doing the holidays down under mate! Trying to get the GBL or ENL involved? Better hope they aren't market testing a new concoction homie (not always a bad thing…) But whenever you can track one of these bad boys down? Go for it, make it a venti. Fuck it…make it a Trenta! You remember Christmas morning when you thought all your presents were gone and you were kind of sad…and then dad comes out with a fucking Foosball table? That is the Christmas latte selection.

2. Cinnamon Dulce Latte
My favorite line from the 1999 classic "Nas is Like" is 'I'm the feeling of a millionaire spending a hundred grand.' I like this line because it's irresponsible as fuck but probably feels great. Kind of like fucking a random rave girl at Coachella without a condom. Badish life decision. I mean it's not a great idea to spend 10% of your net worth all at once, but you still have 900 grand in the bank. Also the chances of a white girl from Calabasas having AIDS are low. And this is a secret menu item which makes you feel like you're in some secret exclusive club. "What's a CDL?" OH YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT YOU PEASANT.

1. Chestnut Praline Latte
I feel this can best be described in a scene…

INT. Indianapolis Fashion Mall -Starbucks kiosk - DAY

A hungover YOUNG MAN (26) severely underdressed for the wintery weather of the midwest shuffles into the mall blowing on his cold hands. He carries with him a YANKEE CANDLE BAG because what the fuck else do you get your mom for Christmas. He spots the Starbucks and immediately beelines it to the front of the line. An eager young female barista (cute, 19) waits on his order.

BARISTA

Welcome to Starbucks! Would you like to try a Chestnut Praline Latte today?

YOUNG MAN

Um, no…Can I get a grande gingerbread latte.

BARISTA

I'm so sorry, we actually aren't offering that drink at this location but would you like a chestnut praline latte instead, it's really good!

YOUNG MAN

No I guess I'll just have an eggnog latte with an extra shot…

BARISTA

We, um…actually aren't doing that right now either…

YOUNG MAN

You've got be kidding me.

BARISTA

No actually Indianapolis is a test market for…

YOUNG MAN

For what? The fucking Chestnut Praline latte?

BARISTA

I promise it's really good.

YOUNG MAN

How good?

BARISTA

You know in movies when the guy scores with the girl out of his league and then has a shit eating grin on his face the rest of the day and his buddies know that he totally hooked up with the hot chick?

YOUNG MAN

Uh…ya?

BARISTA

It's like that but better, you might have an orgasm right in front of me. Seriously if you don't like it, I'll give you anything else for free.

CUT TO:

INT. Indianapolis Fashion Mall -Starbucks kiosk - DAY - Moments later

The YOUNG MAN is staring at the girl and down at his pants. He looks at the cup.

BARISTA

It can make an atheist believe in God.

YOUNG MAN

What are you doing later…

END ACT I.

So ya, a CPL might make you cum in your pants or fall in love or both. For real though, it's the shit. I give it 10 barre classes out of 10. And there you have it, the definitive ranking of Starbucks lattes. If your favorite is unranked eat a bag of dicks you basic bitch and better luck next time.