High times of hilarity.

So Saturday, Photogal and I go to this Polish dance club to meet up with some of her friends. Supposedly her friends dig this place because the ratio of men to women leans heavily in the women’s favor. Well, not the night we were there. Hell, I even got my ass grabbed!

(Don’t get too excited, I merely take that as proof that the lighting was dim and the young lady doing the grabbing must’ve been three sheets at the time.)

So yeah, it was wild. And they played that Alice Deejay song that they were playing every five minutes the last time I was in Poland...FIVE YEARS AGO! Let’s just say the music wasn’t exactly progressive. Oh, and guy with the severely gelled spikes and sunglasses dancing with yourself on top of that pillar and checking yourself out in the mirror? You look fabulous. Really.

The rest of the night was actually kind of mundane and grown up until the point I found myself stranded waiting for a cab in the middle of – to cabs anyway – nowhere trying to avoid some guy selling socks in the middle of the street at 3:30 in the morning. Two long bus rides, interrupted by one block of walking two girls to their street (who apparently didn’t really need an escort since one of ‘em had a gun in her purse so I’m not sure why they drafted me to walk them one block down North in the first place) I finally made it home. It was really late. I felt like a total ass for getting in that late.

There are nights you feel all rock and/or roll when you’re getting in just before sunrise and there are nights you just feel like an idiot…this was definitely an example of the latter.

So there’s my Saturday. Upon reflection it was a lot less exciting than I had originally thought. Let’s fix that
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High times of hilarity part deux, the imaginary years.

So Saturday, Photogal and I went skydiving and landed in the middle of this dance floor at this Polish club where Jay-Z and Beyonce were doing this impromptu performance thingie. Well, me and Beyonce started to really get it on and I guess Hova was getting a little nervous so he called in his swat team of security guys, comprised solely of seven-plus foot Albanians pumped full of ‘roid muscle. I quickly dispatched the threat utilizing my Bohemian Death Stare™ (actual death not included) and took off with Photogal after telling Beyonce I was Coke, not Pepsi, kind of guy.

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Okay, I’m lying.

Obviously the second tale is far too farfetched to be true. There is no such thing as a Bohemian Death Stare™. You got me.