Every guy, (fuck that, every girl too), has heard of having to "take one for the team." Those retards on the Jersey Shore made this famous by using the term grenade. A grenade, of course, is usually the fat ugly friend who has latched on to a more attractive girl like a leech in order to get some sex from a guy who would, under normal circumstances, not even glance at her. It doesn't work the other way, however. If you're a fat, ugly dude, you probably aren't getting laid unless you have a ton of money, or you go after an equally fat, ugly chick.
The main reason for this is the bond that best guy friends form and the willingness of guys to have each other's back, in ways that women can't begin to understand. This is true until one's "best friend" forces you to fuck a grenade so horrendous that she can only be described as a WMD. This happened to me once, and will definitely never happen again.
I knew it was a bad idea when my roommate was trying to get me to go with him so that he could try to bang a bartender he had met at work and described simply as a "10." Going with the rules of society, 10 had a friend and 10 wouldn't hang out unless my roommate had someone to come keep her friend company. Being the good friend and wing man that I was, I said, "Fine...I'll go and keep her company while you do your thing, but at least tell me she's tolerable to look at." Now I'm not a completely superficial asshole, but there IS a line. So when my roommate answered my question with a goofy smirk and, "She seems really cool," a red flag went up immediately. I didn't even have to say anything, but I gave him the look like, "Are you fucking kidding me?" He laughed his ass off...."Dude, she's a 10, c'mon!" After much debate with myself, but not wanting to break the guy code, I got dressed and headed out to what would surely be an unforgettable, unmitigated nightmare.
My friend and I met 10, (and she definitely was a 10) and who you'd have to call her "girlfriend," for the simple fact that she miraculously didn't have a penis, at the bar. Upon my first glance, the horror quickly set in that this would surely be the most miserable night of my life. I tried to suck it up and keep this troll occupied while my buddy did his best to get 10 to come home without having to resort to Rufalin and date rape.. I staggered through the night, trying to stay interested in what WMD was saying....(yeah, she was annoying too)....while my roommate was dry humping 10 for the next three hours.
I knew what was coming. It was clear as day. Roommate would ask 10 to come home, 10 would tell him that she couldn't leave her troll friend and that she'd have to come too, and good old wing man Vinny would have to continue to degrade himself to give roommate a chance at banging this smoking hot bartender, personality of a kid with downs syndrome notwithstanding. Needless to say, this is exactly what happened and the 4 of us went back home.
It wasn't long before roommate had 10 in his bedroom....and there we were, just me and WMD left in the living room. I tried every excuse in the book to attempt to get myself out of the situation. "I have to work early tomorrow." "I have to go with my sister to get her dog euthanized." "I'm thinking of offing myself, so I gotta fill my script in the morning and swallow the entire bottle of pills." "I have AIDS." Nothing worked....WMD was undeterred. This was going down whether I liked it or not.
I excused myself, went to our bathroom, threw water on my face and took a long look in the mirror. My pep talk went something like this...."You gotta do this Vin....that girl in roommate's bed is way to hot for me to fuck it up. You're going to get back out there, drink as much tequila as you can stomach, and fuck WMD for your best friend, because he would surely do it for you."
Destroying any dignity and self-respect that I had in my soul, I went to my room, practically dragged by WMD, and had at it. I was only able to accomplish this by completely emptying my mind and picturing myself in a far off land, with someone, anyone, other than WMD. The entire time, (and trust me, I made it as brief as possible), I was somewhat comforted by the fact that roommate was having some incredible sex with an incredibly beautiful bartender. "I'll be a fucking hero! He'll owe me for life for this! At least it will be a funny story!"
After we were done and Troll fell asleep and started snoring like a 300 pound diabetes patient who smoked a pack of Marlboros every day. I crawled on my floor to a nearby trash basket and literally threw up everything in my stomach. I then left my room, hating myself for what I did, and slept restlessly out on the couch. I woke up at about 6 a.m. and left. I didn't give a fuck if Troll stole every one of my possessions...as long as I never had to look at her or talk to her again.
Later in the day I returned home and took a shower, scrubbing myself as if I'd been gang raped by a group of homeless guys in the back of a 1987 Plymouth Horizon hatchback. When roommate came home from what I could only think of a trip in which he bragged about the previous night's exploits, I of course asked him how 10 was last night.
"I don't know man, she fucking passed out on me as soon as we got into my bed, can you believe that shit? How did it go with you? I could here you puking." I just looked at him. He laughed. I didn't.
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