The Second to Last Time I Smoked Pot, Part Two

To read part one, scroll down. Damn, I should have given this thing a quick wrap up. I don't know if Part Two will be any good. Ah, who cares?

As soon as the house lights came up, I went out to the parking lot to meet Wu. I usually hate staying until last call because the air smells of desperation and the stench is right under your nose like Tara Reid just gave you a Dirty Sanchez.

Three-fourths of the crowd were milling about in the parking lot, a sort of white trash after-party. While I was looking for Wu a drunk girl who was trying to fit her summer of 2001 ass into a pair of 1999 pants started screaming hilljill incoherencies at her slack-jawed paramour, who was wearing jeans that were in style when Def Leppard's drummer had both his arms. As she continued screaming and wildly gesturing, a small group started chanting "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" That was good for a laugh.

When I found Wu he was getting the aforementioned young, cute girl's phone number. He said goodbye and mentioned that we were going to be at the Steak and Shake near Stoneybrook if she wanted to meet us there.

"Should she be driving?" I asked as I watched her cute little butt stagger away.

"Should I be driving?" Wu replied.

I conceded the point and we went to Steak and Shake. While we were both enjoying our feast of a double steakburger, cheese fries and a small cup of chili, Wu's cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds, said, "We'll be right there," and hung up. The girl from the bar had blown a tire (heh heh) and was stranded about ten miles from us.

Well, it turned out her tire didn't blow until her inebriated ass slammed into a curb; luckily she did it right in front of a convenience store. When we got there Wu changed her tire and she engaged me in conversation. That's when I found out that, in the great buffet of life, she skipped past the intelligence carving station and treated herself to a second helping of tits. Her stupidity actually had an aura, she was so plank-dumb; but her boobs were Einsteinian in their brilliance.

While Wu struggled to put on her spare tire, she confided in me. Why do women always confide in me? I've had strippers tell me their troubles and woes.

"I'm a little nervous about going out with Wu," she slurred. It was loud enough for him to hear her from his apartment, let alone from five feet away.

"Why?" I asked. Oh, yeah, that's why women confide in me. I make the mistake of listening.

"I haven't been with a black guy since the one who took my virginity," she said like a normal person would say "I had meatloaf for dinner."

Okay, did he take her virginity or did she give it to him? From where we were sitting, I was closer to Wu and I could hear him slightly chuckle from under the car. I decided to try to make him laugh. The Lakers were playing the 'Sixers for the NBA title that year, so this came to my mind: "This black guy, the one who deflowered you, was he Dikembe Mutumbo?" As I said this I wagged my finger at her like Mutumbo did when he blocked a shot. Then I sniffed said finger. Dikembe never did that. That was my own personal touch.

Wu started laughing a little harder and almost exploded when the girl replied, without irony, "No, it was Darrel Rogers."

"Darrel Rogers!" I exclaimed. "He fucked my sister. Darrel's fucked a lot of white girls."

By then Wu was laughing so hard I feared the jack would slip and he'd be crushed to death, but he finally finished.

A few minutes later we were at her house and I was attached to a bong the size of a Lincoln Navigator. I don't remember a lot after that, except the girl seemed to be allergic to clothes after a few hits.

Oh, and then she gave Wu a blumpkin and wiped his ass with her bra.

Okay, that last part didn't happen. I was just giving the people what they want.