Friday night hits like a freight train, baby!

You spent all week pretending to be a functioning adult,

and your brain?s screaming louder than your ex on moving day:

?Only cure for this shit is cold beer and bad choices!?

You skip supper, skip logic, and head straight for the bar -

because nothing says ?maturity? like replacing protein with hops.

Waitress hands you a menu, but come on?you didn?t come here for soup and fuckin? salad.

You came to discipline your liver.

First pitcher down, and here come the wings - lookin? like they survived a grease fire and a divorce.

You bite one, and it crunches like spicy drywall.

Do you care? Hell no.

You?re buzzed, burpin?, and grinnin? like a happy idiot.

Then they show up.

The freeloading crew.

No money, but somehow their thirst?s Olympic level.

They slide in with that greasy grin that says, ?We?re drinkin? your paycheck tonight, champ.?

Suddenly, they?re callin? the waitress like they?re CEOs of the bar tab.

And the single-guy table across the way?

All eyes locked on the waitress like she?s the last woman left on Earth.

They ain?t lookin? for love - just hopin? she drops a pitcher their way.

You?re tryin? to eat your wings, but these bastards are ?helpin?.?

By helpin?, I mean devouring your damn supper.

Somewhere between the third wing and your fourth piss break,

a girl smiles at you.

So naturally, your brain says,

?Time to ruin this with words.?

You lean in all slick and whisper,

?See that ugly bastard over there? Wanna go half on a baby with me??

SLAP!

Bar goes silent.

Jukebox skips.

You?re standin? there with a handprint on your face and a dumb grin sayin?,

?She definitely wants me.?

Then the music hits.

You hit the dance floor like a disco zombie on Red Bull.

You think you?re crushin? it - truth is, you look like you?re swattin? invisible hornets. 

People start backin? up? not outta respect, but fear you?re about to detonate.

Karaoke kicks off.

You grab the mic like it?s destiny.

Suddenly, you?re Enrique freakin? Iglesias, screamin? Hero like it?s your national anthem.

Some prick yells, ?Sit down, Ricky Martin!?

You ignore him.

This is your Oscar moment, baby.

Then nature calls.

You stumble toward the bathroom like a half-charged Roomba,

bouncin? off tables, spillin? beers, high-fivin? strangers.

You finally find the urinal - and somehow manage to fall toward it.

Face on the wall, hand on the wrong zipper.

Then some random dude starts talkin? like you?re at a fuckin? job interview.

You leave the washroom soaked, confused, and 100% convinced you?re still killin? it.

Then comes Mr. Protein Shake at the pool table - biceps bigger than your self-esteem.

He loses a hundred bucks and decides your face owes him rent.

BAM

You?re seein? stars and Jesus? flashlight.

???

Next thing you know, the bouncer?s draggin? you to the curb like a sack of bad decisions.

Your buddies?

Still inside.

Finishing your beer.

Morning hits.

You wake up in a stranger?s bed - wearin? a pink crop top, one sock, and regret.

There?s a teddy bear with one eye and a shoe on the ceiling fan.

A note on the dresser says,

?You owe me $20 for the cab.?

You look in the mirror - eyes puffy, hair sideways, face like a crime scene.

You mumble,

?Well? must?ve been a good night.?

Your phone buzzes - your buddy texted:

?Bro? you sang Hero five times and tried to order wings from the DJ.?

You sip your coffee, squint at the sun, and mutter like a champion:

?Fuck it. Same time next Friday.?

?????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre

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