First Posted: 5/1/2014
You know what they say: When it rains, it pours. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. If she never had Chlamydia, she’s a keeper.
Those were just some of the thoughts racing through my head as I found myself stranded at a hip-hop dance crew showcase.
It started out as an ordinary day. Don’t they all?
I was driving to watch the University of Scranton’s hip-hop dance crew perform its end of the year showcase, with my friend, Miss Exotic, in my passenger seat.
The ensemble of dancers were set to perform on my new online talk show a few weeks later, so naturally I wanted to be in attendance to show my support.
While stepping on the brakes as we neared a stop sign, my brakes gave out.
“I can’t die!” screamed Miss Exotic as we ran through the stop sign and almost crashed into a Turkey Hill. “I’m getting my hair braided tomorrow.”
Maybe it was luck, or perhaps it was God’s plan, to have me watch a group of white college dudes perform “Twerkin’ in the Rain” because we didn’t die. In fact, we still managed to make the performance.
In the middle of watching the hip-hop dance crew twerk it out, Miss Exotic leaned over to tell me the most ridiculous thing ever said since Gwyneth Paltrow labeled her separation from her husband as “conscious uncoupling.”
“I have to go to a sober party,” she whispered in my ear.
“When?” I asked. “And, wait, like sober as in AA?”
“Yeah, I have to go right now! You can come with me if you want.”
“What the hell am I going to do at a sober dance party?” I asked her.
My car was hanging by a moment on an e-brake at a Turkey Hill. The only AA that I needed was A&A Auto.
I was speechless when Miss Exotic wound up leaving me alone with no ride during the middle of the show to attend a sober party.
Luckily, my friend Side-boob Sally was able to pick me up.
“I have to warn you,” she noted. “I’m a little drunk. I’ve been drinking.”
When the most helpful person I knew turned out to be drunk, I started to remember why I felt uncomfortable at the thought of attending a dance for sober people.
“That’s a cop behind me! I’m going to jail. I’ve been drinking,” cried Side-boob Sally as she carefully drove me home.
“Quick, pull into that driveway and pretend we live there,” I suggested.
While sitting in a random driveway, we waited for the cop to pass us, only to find out it was a minivan.
To celebrate that a cop didn’t bust us for drinking and driving, we decided to get a drink at the nearest dive bar. Although my designated driver didn’t get a DUI, she did get a series of bug bites on her ankles at the filthy dive we stopped at.
While sipping on a round that cost as much a hamburger in 1958, I realized that sometimes sober friends get you in trouble, and sometimes it takes a drunk friend to come through for you.
