Thanks to everyone for their suggestions. When I woke up Friday morning I had every intention to be George Michael. I had visions of walking into parties and playing "Faith" on the guitar and watching all the women swoon - but alas, the thought of my precious guitar getting demolished in the freight train that happens when Crown Royal touches Coca Cola made me think otherwise.
Plus I wasn't committed to staying in character and being forced to play with myself in the bathroom.
So then I thought maybe I would be Gallagher. I went to the store, got all the goodies and came home excited about the prospects of demolishing everything in sight with my Sledge-o-Matic.
Then the mustache happened.
It was innocent enough; to get in character I shaved my delicious beard into a molestache. But when I pulled that razor from my newly bare cheek, the cold winds of winter brushing my bare skin for the first time in months, inspiration struck.
How could I turn that mustache down? He didn't want to be part of some elaborate costume - he wanted to shine. I looked him deep in his eyes and granted his wish; because that's what I do, Reader, I make dreams come true.
So off I went, first to a party, then to the land of Meat-heads and Barbie Dolls - a downtown bar.
My favorite part of downtown bars is that they have mathematically calculated the exact number of people to let in to ensure that you will have someone's ass rammed into your crotch the entire time you are there. I feel much safer knowing that my crotch is now using the buddy system with some stranger's ass. The bar was like a pack of sardines; if sardines wore too much hair gel and loved Jager bombs.
As the bar did it's collective crotch dance, fusing our reproductive organs into some sort of synchronized dance, one girl decided that she was no longer part of the group. Instead, she decided that I was public enemy number one - keeping her from getting to the bar for a drink. I have to give this girl credit, she had the determination of Lance Armstrong the way she repeatedly used her ass as a weapon to shove me into the 48 people inhabiting the 3 ft area in which I stood.
After screaming at me repeatedly she reared back and used her ass as a battering ram to clear me out of the way. It was at this point that I accidentally spilled my entire drink on her.
"Accidentally" MIGHT not be the right word choice. "I turned and dumped my entire drink down the back of her stupid Catwoman costume" might be a better word choice. But I am no word smith, so lets stick with accidentally.
After some screaming and name calling, Catwoman disappeared into the night and out of my life forever.
Kidding - that would be a terrible story.
About a half hour later, Catwoman's Meat Head boyfriend, dressed as Fred Flintstone, came up to me and said -
"You hittin on my girl?"
She screamed at me and I dumped my entire drink on her! I must REALLY suck at flirting if that's how it is supposed to go. Here I was, complimenting girls or making a joke, when in reality I needed to just berate them and throw things at them. Who knew my education on women came from trolling the redneck trailer parks back home.
I try to talk Johnny McMuscles out of fighting me, seeing as how I am dressed as a pedophile and he as Fred Flinstone, but he was having none of it.
Just as he was ready to go Barney Rubble on my ass, a giant Garth from Wayne's World came up behind me, looked at the guy and said, "Dude, he wasn't hitting on your girl."
Fred Flintstone glared at me, backed up and gave me the "tough guy stare down" all the way out of the bar.
I turned to Garth, all 6'5" and long, stringy blonde wig of him and he says, "What an asshole."
And then he was gone.
What I am trying to tell you, Readers, is that sometimes life gets you down. Sometimes life finds you with a porn stache and a pocket full of Laffy Taffy, about to get pounded into a bloody pulp. And that is when god sends his angels to watch out for you.
I hope all of you have a Giant Garth that looks over your shoulder when you need him most.
Party on, Garth...