Hey, bud. Let’s party. – Jeff Spicoli, 1982
A Retardo Adventure – Convince your coworker friend from Burger King (8 Barrel) to have a party at his house while his folks are away. Make sure all the “hotties” from the BK Lounge are there. Being a 17-year-old male virgin, “Hotties” means any/all alive human females under 30. THERE ARE NO OTHER REQUIREMENTS.
Get stupid drunk, because the hotties dig the smooth, glib, suaveness of Retardo the babe-stealing stud, the prototype for Penis, Lord of Scum. To become the man, the legend, the media conglomerate of doom, sneak back to your own house and snag the 2 pints of Jack Daniels hidden under the back seat of your rusted out VW 411. Go back to the party and drink one of these yourself, because the cool guys in Motley Crue pound these like Gatorade. But ingurgitate not, for you do not want to wake up in a drug rehab fort lauderdale. Drink beer, too, because the wild-eyed Southern boys do that. Say stupid shit to Jack Dova’s date that he’s putting the moves on (Debbie something with the braces?), because you know she wants you more than him. They all want you.
Don’t let the so-called “utter revulsion” of that hottie which follows throw you off your game. Go down to the basement where your host is putting the moves on some slightly weird toothpick thin girl named Michelle. Not “I only talk to you to get close to 8 Barrel” Michelle. The other Michelle. The Michelle who cries like a girl when she gets hit with a softball. The Michelle you drove home in Bill S’s rusted out Vega, but didn’t shag. Michelle seems attractive to you because 8 wants her so bad. Sit way too close to them, and scare and disgust them with how hauntingly close to cardiac arrest and/or brain death you are. Hope no one lights a match, or you’ll go off.
Later, smoke some “hash” (which is probably cigarette ashes, dogshit and powdered dish soap) then have 3 or 4 party guests drag you (by your arms, since you long ago lost the ability to walk) around the block to “sober you up.”
Karma: How’d that work out for ya?
You: Oh shut the fuck up.
As a courtesy to 8, puke in (or at least towards) the toilet, not the closet. Go ahead and rip the towel rack off the wall when you’re done, because it swung at you first, and if you can do this, it proves you have not lost all your super powers to the kryptonite-laced whiskey.
The next morning, watch as your thoroughly disgusted host takes your unopened pint and throws it at a nearby swamp. Enjoy the hangover, which will last 3 days. Or longer.
Wait a year, until you no longer feel the urge to puke at the mere mention of *Jack Daniels.* Then go look for that bottle. It’s probably still there.