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July 01, 2009

How to Lose a Booty Call

One sunny afternoon I returned to my home at the Chateau Apartments in beautiful Hollywood, California, and as luck would have it, I bumped into two lovely young blondes in the building's elevator. One of the blondes tried to embarrass me by pointing out that I reeked of marijuana, which in her defense was true because I was holding two hundred dollars worth of marijuana on me.

Not wanting to be outdone – especially by a blonde – I quickly replied that they smelled like hamburgers, which in my defense was true because they were each holding bags of Wendy's Old Fashioned Hamburgers.

Busted for carelessly eating greasy fast food – a serious no-no in Los Angeles for any lovely young blonde trying to make it in the entertainment industry – I not only made the girls laugh, but more importantly, proved my superiority at embarrassing people in elevators. I made an impression on the blonde who called me out for stinking of weed and she introduced herself to me. Out of respect, I’ll keep her identity anonymous and call her Puke Girl.

A few weeks later, I bumped into Puke Girl in the elevators again when I was leaving for work one morning and she informed that she had been "drunk-knocking" on my door the past few nights. I encouraged Puke Girl to keep drunk-knocking and sure enough, she drunk-knocked on my door that very same night. And get this – she was wearing only a robe. That's right. A robe! A white terry cloth robe to be exact.

Are you getting this? The only thing separating me from her two luscious milky-white boobies was a thin piece of terry cloth. I couldn't believe it. Only pubescent boys in their wildest masturbation fantasies are visited by gorgeous, half-naked women dressed in robes, but here it was happening to me in real life!  And I'd like to take this moment to really applaud Puke Girl on her efforts. Seriously. Keep in mind, she walked down a long hallway and up two flights of stairs wearing only a robe – and just for my sorry ass!

So to make a long story short, I excused myself to brush my teeth – after all, I was smoking pot for the better part of the night – and proceeded to go as far as a naked blonde wearing a robe, will let you go – which surprisingly wasn't that far. But still far enough.

After fooling around for a while she returned to her apartment, but not before we firmly established booty call status in the building, complete with future plans to "sleep over" already laid out.

Life was good.

A few days after the robe incident, I was out getting hammered with a few friends at Coach and Horses, a local watering hole by my place. Anyway, I don't remember much after my fourth double vodka redbull, except for my primordial instincts which kept screaming "Puke Girl! Puke Girl! Puke Girl!!" And just so you know, vodka redbull's are deadly because the vodka makes you black-out drunk and the redbull keeps you wide awake.

Now, I had no business to be calling for a pizza delivery, let alone a booty call, but there really is no stopping a horny drunk guy – especially when they have a gorgeous new booty call just a mere 30 vertical feet away. Anyway, I called Puke Girl when I got back to my place, and I have no idea what I said to her but whatever it was, it was apparently convincing because she was once again knocking on my door.

I remember letting her in my apartment. I remember taking her to my bedroom. And I remember puking all over her face. After that things start getting a little hazy.

And I'd also like to note that just before puking on her face, I have the faintest memory of her telling me that I was "burping funny” – which is probably true because that’s an old technique I perfected in college where instead of puking I could slowly burp it out instead. But apparently it wasn’t working that night.

Anyway, for some reason her panties were in a bind and she decided to leave.  And to be completely honest, I don’t remember anything after that. The next morning I woke up feeling like Dr. Bruce Banner. You know, when you wake up wearing a pair of tattered maroon pants, and you’re not quite sure what you did exactly, but you have a vague recollection of wreaking havoc as the Incredible Hulk the night before.

But my temporary amnesia lasted about two seconds, because as soon as I saw the crusty puke on the side of my mattress, I remembered everything. I remembered Puke Girl coming over. I remembered puking on Puke Girl. And I remembered Puke Girl leaving. I was so pissed at myself and immediately sent Puke Girl an e-mail in a lame attempt to enforce some kind of damage control:

----- Original Message -----
From: "Steve Pilot" <sjfatty@hotmail.com>
To: <pukegirl@yahoo.com>
Sent: Tuesday, April 18, 2006 9:29 AM
Subject: about last night...

Boy, I guess someone had a few drinks, huh?

So listen, there's no need to get into any details--we both know what happened--you probably better than me... But if you promise to hang out with me again I promise to never puke in front of you again.


PS: I respect whatever decision you make...

PPS: Come on, it's not that bad is it?? I'm sure you could write a song about it...

Puke Girl responded a few days later:

Re: about last night...?
From:     Puke Girl (pukegirl@yahoo.com)
Sent:     Wed 4/21/06 2:34 PM
To:     Steve Pilot (sjfatty@hotmail.com)

Next time I insist that if I keep telling you that you aren't just randomly "burping" repeatedly, and I say you're gonna puke, you should listen and run for the bathroom.

Please don’t ever talk to me again.

Puke Girl

P.S. You owe me $82 for dry cleaning. Leave the money with Nadia.

Despite my efforts, it was too late. The damage was already done. I can't blame her though. I mean, how do you come back after puking on someone? I do appreciate that she at least corroborated the fact that I tried burping my puke out. At least I gave it a shot.

The story doesn't end there. About five months later I bumped into Puke Girl again. She couldn't talk because of some sort of vocal cord surgery she recently underwent for singing purposes. As a result, she had to communicate through a small dry-erase board that she was carrying around.

Using said dry-erase board, she asked me if I wanted to go to Quizno's with her for dinner. Apparently she wasn’t as angry as she used to be, and since she was extending the olive branch I excepted her Quizno offer.

After ordering our food, we sat at a table and started joking about the whole puke thing -- well, at least I did. I felt really bad about everything and apologized for puking on her again.

At that point, Puke Girl wrote, "Do you remember everything that happened?" on her dry-erase board.

Of course I remembered everything. How could I not? It went like this: I got drunk. I drunk dialed her. She came over. I puked on her. She left. End of story, right?

No. Not end of story.

Puke Girl went on to explain in great detail – with the use of her dry-erase board – how I not only puked on her, but then proceeded to chase after her down the hall, wearing only a t-shirt, as my hairy junk dangled freely in the open. And if that was bad enough, I was also apparently screaming, "I’ll brush my teeth! I’ll brush my teeth!” over and over again.