I'm Having More Fun Than You (10 page)

I once hooked up with a girl at my place and the next morning we exchanged pleasantries and got dressed. But she didn’t leave. I actually left her in my apartment, went out and ran errands, then came back and she was still there. I turned the heat up all the way and tried to sweat her out. Nothing. I started to concoct arduous tasks that I needed to do that day in order to try to get rid of her (“Um, I really need to wash the windows”). She offered to help. I jumped in the shower. She joined me, uninvited. I peed in the shower, she didn’t care. She would not leave. I was seriously thinking about calling the cops to remove her. I was wasted the night before. Who knows? I could have taken home a well-dressed homeless chick. She finally left around 7:30 p.m. It was a one-
day
stand.

What I’ve never understood is why girls are always so self-conscious about getting dressed the morning after. We’ve been naked hooking up all night and now you’re trying to put your thong back on without lifting your ass from the bed? You’re so adamant about not letting me see your breasts again that you’re desperately trying to wiggle back into your bra without taking your shirt off first? And it’s such a struggle too. I’ve watched chicks almost dislocate their own shoulders like Mel Gibson in
Lethal Weapon 2.
Why didn’t you pull that kinky shit when we were hooking up?

Another question I often get from my female readers is “Why didn’t he call?” Ladies, if you hook up with a guy and then he never calls you, there are really only a few possible reasons: one, he was already seeing someone else and that relationship has since gotten more serious; two, you’re not nearly as cute in person as you look on Facebook; three, you didn’t fuck him; or four, you did fuck him. I realize those last two are confusing, but those are the facts of life when dealing with a swinging bachelor. The phrase “I’ll call you later” can either mean “I’ll hit you up in a few hours” or “I’ll talk to you when we awkwardly bump into each other in a few months and I try desperately not to make it seem obvious that I’m racking my brain to remember who the fuck you are.”

LOST AND FOUND

Why do chicks always leave something at my place? Thongs I understand. They’re fucking invisible. But why can’t girls remember that they were wearing those big J.Lo hoop earrings that went out of style five years ago? They’re right on my nightstand. And when the girl inevitably texts me to get her belongings back, I often outsource the dirty work to my doorman. I tell the girl I’m going on vacation for one to seven weeks and that she can pick up her stuff whenever. Then I give the doorman an unmarked package and tell him to give it to the first girl who inquires. I’d write her name on it, but I’m not sure if it’s spelled with two
L
s, or is Stacey.

I never lose an article of clothing at a girl’s place. When I get dressed to go out on a Saturday night, I think of the ensemble I’ve put together as one would of his fellow marines—leave no man behind. Besides, I need that light-blue T-shirt. I only have seven T-shirts. I lose one, that fucks up the rotation. If we’re at her place, when we get naked I always stack my possessions in an orderly fashion on the floor. Socks go into my Cons, followed by wallet in the left sneaker, watch and BlackBerry in the right, and T-shirt stuffed into jeans. (I also don’t pull the hide-the-belt trick and leave it safely in its loops.) If I realize at dawn that I’ve suffered from a severe case of beer goggles, this tidy arrangement allows me to quickly scoop up my shit, run into the hallway in my boxers, and get dressed in the elevator.

Claudio once got so drunk that he hooked up with a girl, the next day she was gone, and he couldn’t remember anything. So we’re trying to figure out what the hell happened, and he finds this lone flip-flop that she must have somehow left underneath his bed. We were staring at it, and finally I said, “Dude, who leaves behind one shoe? I think you might have fucked Cinderella.” Now you may scoff at the idea of fucking Cinderella, but believe it or not, I banged Sleeping Beauty. I’m not kidding. I was on tour in Orlando, I met this girl after a show, and her actual day job was playing Sleeping Beauty at Disney World. So we hooked up, and the next morning I checked out of my hotel and left her passed out in the bed. I figured she was used to it.

THE LONGEST WALK OF SHAME

One year, I was on tour in Arizona and I woke up the morning after a show in some random chick’s bed. My first thought was, “I gotta get the hell out of here!” So I popped out of bed, grabbed my wallet and cell phone, tiptoed down the stairs, got dressed, busted out the front door, ran onto the sidewalk, and realized…where the fuck am I? I was on a tree-lined street in the suburbs of Tucson. There were no cabs and no one around. I had no clue where I was. I was officially lost on the walk of shame.

Just as I was trying to figure out my next move, my phone rang. It was one of my buddies in New York. It was 9 a.m. there; he was already in the office and was just calling to leave a message asking how the show went. I seized the opportunity. “Dude,” I pleaded, “you gotta help me! I hooked up with this chick and now I’m lost in the middle of Tucson.” I paused, looked around, noticed a street sign, then exclaimed, “Google Map this address!”

Soon my friend had pinpointed my location on Google Earth and, scanning the area, noticed a hospital about six blocks north by northwest of my position. I knew I could get a cab at the hospital, so I asked him to tell me the directions. Except I was too hungover to remember them, and it was starting to get very, very hot.

That’s when I realized we need a CTU of one-night stands—a command center, just like in the show
24,
that is dedicated to getting you get laid…and then getting you out. Leave your favorite shirt in a girl’s apartment but don’t remember her name? CTU will send a SWAT team to recover it. Bang a busted chick who’s gonna tell everyone? CTU will make her family disappear. Hook up with a girl in the middle of nowhere and leave at the crack of dawn? CTU will send a van to pick you up, and bring a bacon, egg, and cheese! The motto could be: “Helping you avoid the consequences of your actions since 2009.”

Have you ever gone out, gotten bombed, gone home with someone, and then woken up so late the next day that when people saw you doing the walk of shame, they probably just assumed you were going out for the night…again? I don’t think that’s shameful; it’s actually impressive. Especially now that I can see. A few years ago, I tossed my contact lenses for good and got LASIK eye surgery, which literally put my walks of shame in a whole new perspective. And after the Tucson incident, I got my first BlackBerry, then downloaded a GPS-enabled Google Maps application. I’ve never been more prepared to go into battle.

READY AND WILLING

Single guys feel the need to go out partying so much because if there’s a chance that some girl, somewhere, is considering giving someone head, we want to make sure we’re there to possibly receive it. Consistent action is not guaranteed, however. You know a buddy is on a pretty bad cold streak when he says to you, “Hey, you know that girl I hooked up with on that business trip last year? Yeah, I’m thinking about flying her in.” It’s never a good sign when you’ve given up on the millions of women in your own city and resorted to importing ass.

Unfortunately, whether it’s due to missteps, poor timing, or just plain bad luck, every guy hits the occasional drought. In fact, regular Joes are just like professional athletes in that we both sometimes suffer inexplicable slumps. Whether it’s tinkering with our technique or trying to grow facial hair, nothing seems to work. Our only solace is the knowledge that one night, when we least expect it, we’ll hit a home run and get right back on track. But that doesn’t make striking out any less painful.

Most women assume that guys think about sex all the time, and while I haven’t done much to dispel those rumors, it’s actually not true. We do not think about sex all the time. It’s just that the slightest, most random erotic input takes us from not thinking about sex to needing to get off immediately, in 3.6 seconds. My penis is like the DVD player in your entertainment center—always in standby mode. If I turn on my computer in the middle of the afternoon and catch a glimpse of cleavage on a dating web site banner ad, well, that’s a mandatory eight- to twelve-minute break right there. Followed by nap time.

I’m actually surprised at how vivid my imagination is sometimes. For example, my buddy Brandon used to claim he worked with the hottest girl ever. All we ever talked about was how hot his co-worker was. Now I have never met this woman, I have never even seen a picture of her, but I have pleasured myself to the thought of her about fifty times. I’ve created such an elaborate scenario in my head of banging this chick in Brandon’s office—which I’ve never even been to, by the way—that I think if I ever do actually meet her, I might be disappointed. But the thing is, when I fantasize about having sex with this girl, she always turns to me and whispers, “Karo, you swear you won’t tell Brandon about this?” And even in the dream I call up Brandon right away and say, “Dude, I just fucked the shit out of her!”

I
t has been said that a friend is someone who knows all your flaws—and is still your friend. In my experience, a friend is someone who knows all your flaws—and seizes every single opportunity to make fun of you for them. As more of my buddies get hitched, they become much easier targets to rip on, but leave me with fewer bachelors to raise hell with. Being surrounded by like-minded dudes is one of the things that keeps a single guy sane—even if their presence is virtual. Sometimes I go months without seeing my best friends, but email and the occasional bachelor party are all that is needed to sustain male friendship for decades. On the other hand, if chicks don’t see their friends for five days, they often cry and send each other texts complaining that they feel “distant.” As I approached thirty and the prime of my life, my relationships with my boys evolved. Some fell by the wayside, while the tried-and-true ones became even closer. Married friends soon outnumbered single ones. But when all is said and done, my friends remain my gatekeepers—the filter through which I meet girls, make questionable decisions, and view the world. From wingmen to groomsmen, my buddies never cease to make life more entertaining—even if they prefer to laugh at me, not with me.

MAN’S BEST FRIENDS

Before my ten-year high school reunion in 2007, a lot of people told me that the best part of the event would be catching up with friends I’d lost touch with. But the weird thing was that I hadn’t lost touch with any of my high school friends—not a single one. The guys I took a limo to the prom with were the exact same guys who decided to book a limo to take us out after the reunion. And we didn’t get our security deposit back either time.

As I get older, it becomes a lot more difficult to keep track of where my friendships originated. But when I sit down and really think about it, my boys predominantly come from one of four segments of my life: high school, college, Wall Street, and Los Angeles. There’s plenty of crossover, of course. For instance, two of my high school buddies were also in my fraternity at Penn. And two of my college buddies now live here in LA. Sometimes even I get confused. When I received some information about the upcoming reunion, I forwarded it on to my friend Chi, completely forgetting I hadn’t even met him until four years
after
high school.

The problem, in this age of Facebook, is that people are way too liberal with their use of the word “friend.” A friend is not someone you’ve “tagged” in a photo. A friend is not someone you include on all your Evites and who includes you on all his Evites, even though neither of you ever responds. A friend is someone you can call and, if he doesn’t call you right back, feel comfortable calling again and telling him he’s a douche. A good friend is someone you call after a death in his family and he actually picks up, thus forcing you to awkwardly offer your condolences instead of leaving a voicemail like everyone else. A best friend is someone you’ve known for more than a decade, but if you had never met him before, and then hung out with him today for the very first time, you’d remark, “Wow. What a dick.”

I’ve grown to appreciate my true friends more, especially since a lot of them are now on the complete opposite side of the country from me. I’ve quickly learned that no matter what I do when I visit New York, my East Coast friends will accuse me of being
“so
LA.” Perhaps they’re right though; maybe I have changed since moving west. In a way, I should be thankful they continue to call me out on it. Because one cannot experience bachelorhood full throttle without partners in prime. All of my friends keep me grounded by perpetually reminding me of every embarrassing moment in my entire life. My single friends keep me motivated by turning each night out into a competitive hunt for pussy. And my married friends keep me from second-guessing my decisions by demonstrating how the other half lives (within their means and without waking up on bathroom floors). At the end of the day, everyone serves a purpose—whether they like it or not.

CLAUDIO

Claudio is my oldest childhood guy friend. He’s Argentine, and I believe that laid-back South American DNA has prevented him from ever being on time for anything in his entire life. I’m a very punctual person, and after knowing Claud for over twenty years, I still can’t comprehend why he is always so late. He’s like a fucking chick but instead of applying makeup and doing his hair, he just sits on the couch playing Madden until twenty minutes after we’re supposed to meet at the bar.

Claud once told me that he and his roommate share the same bar of soap in their shower because it’s cost-effective and soap is inherently clean. I argued that it’s still disgusting, plus they’re using the same total amount of soap, so that doesn’t save money anyway. Eventually we agreed to disagree, though we all know the real winner is the one of us not sharing a bar of Irish Spring with his roommate.

Claud has a soft spot for downing a few too many Captain and Cokes. One night, I was out with him and a girl he had been seeing for a few weeks. Claudio was absolutely hammered, and he accidentally referred to her as his girlfriend—right in front of her. When I mentioned it to him the next day, Claud didn’t even remember the slip-up. The girl never said anything about it, so he just never brought it up. And that’s pretty much how Claudio tackles dating dilemmas head-on.

Only guys thank their friends for
not
caring about them. After I had moved away, I got a frantic call from my buddies in New York asking if I’d spoken to Claudio. Apparently, they’d all gone out and gotten shitfaced, but no one had heard from Claud the entire next day. I dropped him a text but was generally unconcerned and soon forgot about it. Two days later, he resurfaced and explained that he was just really hungover and had lost his cell phone. I told him I figured as much but that everyone else was freaking out. Claudio replied fondly, “Karo, I knew you wouldn’t be worried.” “Hey,” I said, “that’s not what friends are for.”

CHI

I met Chi (pronounced
chee
) when I was assigned the cubicle adjacent to his when I worked on Wall Street, before becoming a comedian. Chi and I became fast friends for two reasons. One, we shared a common interest in getting blindingly drunk after work. And two, I admired how he could get away with sporting a goatee and Diesel sneakers to the office (both against company policy) simply because he’s Korean and people were afraid to say anything.

Everyone who meets Chi
loves
him. Compared to me, he’s just a generally nice and friendly person. One time, he asked me to lend him some money and I obliged. Later, I was talking to another friend, and when the transaction with Chi came up, she remarked, “Chi’s such a good guy.” I was like, “Wait a minute, I’m the one who fucking lent
him
the money!”

People should really be fawning over me, and not Chi, after all I’ve done for the guy. First of all, I introduced him to his girlfriend, Cat. Sorta. What happened was, I was heading down to visit Penn in 2003 and invited Claudio and Chi to come party with me. Claudio brought his co-worker Cat, she and Chi hit it off on the car ride down, and they now live together. So basically I should be godfather to their future half-Korean babies. Second of all, when I first met Chi, how can I put this…the kid didn’t wear underwear. Mind you, he didn’t grow up in the backwoods of Seoul. He’s from the fucking suburbs of Los Angeles, not far from where I live now. He just preferred to freeball until I sat him down one day and told him that’s not how we do it in the real world. Put it this way—if you and I are co-workers, and
I’m
telling
you
to act more appropriately, something is seriously wrong.

You may remember Chi from
Ruminations on Twentysomething Life
as my friend who once passed out drunk in the middle of a phone call and used all his minutes for the month in one night. I’m happy to report that he is much more tech-savvy now. He even locks his new BlackBerry with a password so that no one can use it if he loses it. Which is a great idea, except for the time he got so fucked up that he couldn’t remember his own password and proceeded to enter it incorrectly ten consecutive times—which automatically triggers the BlackBerry to erase all the data in its memory.

But perhaps Chi’s biggest flaw is that he makes the absolute worst plans ever. Back in the day, he organized a trip to visit his brother Danny at the University of Arizona. We took a red-eye from New York after work and got in very late Friday night, then flew out at like 5 a.m. on Sunday. Our entire stay was just over twenty-four hours. Quite frankly, I’m amazed we accomplished that much. Because Chi is also that guy who always misses his flight. We were both getting fucked up at this party once and I asked him, “Wait, aren’t you going to Chicago tomorrow for work?” And he said, “Yeah, my flight is at 7 a.m., so I’m only gonna have a few more drinks.” Then he calls me the next day like, “Dude, I’m still in the city. I overslept and missed my flight.” And this happens
every time
he flies.

THE TRIPLETS

The Triplets are fraternal triplet brothers I went to high school with. I always refer to them by their birth order: Triplet #1 (the oldest, by two minutes) is a married risk manager, Triplet #2 is single and works in finance, and Triplet #3 (the youngest) is a married orthopedic surgeon. The Triplets are a good example of crossover friends, because I went to high school with all of them and college with two of them. Triplet #2 and I started at Penn together, and Triplet #3 later transferred there. I’ll never forget when Trip 3 joined our frat as a sophomore yet already knew about all the hazing that was going to happen. I yelled at Trip 2, “Dude, why the hell did you tell him all the secrets about the House?” And he replied, “Karo, what were the odds that twelve months later my triplet brother was going to apply here, get accepted, transfer, rush, and pledge the exact same fraternity?”

Remember the classic
Seinfeld
episode where Jerry complains that the car rental place knows how to take reservations but not how to hold them? That’s like Triplet #1 with plans: he can make plans; he just doesn’t keep them. If you make plans with him, he tends to sort of pencil it in until something better comes along, and then cancels on you at the last possible moment. I love the kid, but sometimes we have to remind him that guy code clearly stipulates plans can only be broken for three reasons: a death in the family, the opportunity for sex, or playoff tickets.

Everyone’s got the figure-out-the-check guy in their group of friends. As soon as the bill comes after a big dinner, I immediately pass it to Triplet #2. It is his sacred responsibility to divide up the bill among a dozen drunken idiots. And without fail, after all the money is counted, figure-out-the-check guy has to yell out, “OK, who didn’t pay? Hello? Yo! Guys! Who the fuck didn’t pay!?”

Once dinner is paid for, Trip 2 and I often end up boozing together, since his brothers are married and therefore dead to us. The bar is where Trip 2 takes on his alternate persona: the Hulk. Yup, besides figure-out-the-check guy, he’s also the guy who gets drunk, gets into a fight, and ruins the night for everyone. Do not look at Trip 2 the wrong way or brush past him in a manner that could be construed as aggressive. He will punch you. You, in turn, will accidentally punch
me
in the face, as I’m standing right next to him. This has actually happened. Twice.