I had a deep, life-altering, existentialist conversation with some random whilst stuffing envelopes at my internship (it’s “character-building,” I’m sure). Except not really. My envelope-stuffing partner said that just about every possible life situation can be explained by a “Seinfeld” episode. I’d disagree because it’s never quite made clear how George ever successfully picks up women, but I realize in retrospect that I once held a very skewed view of the series finale.
I thought it was crap. A cheap, contrived plot device to land the main characters in jail. Now I see that it was the perfect cap on the proverbial bottle: a summary of a show about four terrible people, on trial, forced to face every last person they screwed over in the last nine years. Shit, son.
It got me thinking about me and one of my friends. He told me he wanted a badass nickname for the purpose of this column, so I decided that nothing is more badass than BAMF. He would be the Clyde to my Bonnie (or the Nancy to my Sid, because I would stab him on a heroin high first) if he didn’t prefer Ryan Reynolds to ScarJo. There are times I almost think he resents me for being a girl. Case in point: We were driving down Russell when he saw something he liked standing around shirtless in a front yard. I told him I’d already tapped that. He disdainfully said, “Gross. That’s damaged goods.”
Besides that, though, he has his moments of handiness. I was at a party once that was heavily populated with men who also like Ryan Reynolds. I suppose I thought it was a good idea to go around asking some of them how old they were when they decided they didn’t like vag. One of the guys countered, “I’m not gay. Let me prove it to you,” and started making out with me. This is when BAMF sprung to my rescue by shouting, “GAHHH! I’m her boyfriend! Get out of here!”
Then he shooed him away exactly in the same manner you’d shoo a mutt away from your blue-blooded poodle. Gee whiz, it was swell and awful sweet.
He’s not the gay best friend who dresses me in couture and watches chick flicks with me. He’s the gay best friend who calls me a cumdumpster while I’m on the phone with my dad and yells, “PENIS!” out of car windows. And he would rather be hanged, eviscerated and quartered than participate in anything as ridiculous as a glitter protest. The prospect of us going camping incites imagery of us poking a sleeping bear with a big stick and then running like hell when it goes live. Our carcasses would be discovered by a stoned park ranger on the search for the perfect spot in the woods to take a piss, I’d imagine.
The point is I thank our lucky stars that life isn’t a “Seinfeld” episode and (knock on wood) we won’t be forced to face everyone we’ve wronged in our time at Davis. If we were, we’d have to face one angry mom with a toddler whose table we stole at the Farmers Market. We thought she was out of hearing range when BAMF called her a bitch, but she turned around and asked, “What did you call me?” Poor kid had no choice but to repeat it.
Then there are the Asian girls we got into a fight with and ended up shouting “enjoy your sexless lives, virgins!” at. Oh, the maturity we possess. We may or may not have called out some ugly, annoying people for being ugly and annoying, too. We played the penis game before anyone ever heard of 500 Days of Summer, which is probably bad news for every parent who’s ever had to cover their child’s ears when we’re in public. And then there’s that one chick who made the mistake of fighting us for the last available electric socket in the library during finals week. Note, people: You never want to be that girl.
We’re just kids who roam the streets of Davis singing Taylor Swift songs, leaving a trail of broken hearts and burning trash cans in our wake. I concede. It’s just a matter of time till we get our asses kicked. We may be offensive and obnoxious, but we’re not that bad. We’ve yet to get anyone deported or given someone a used wheelchair, but we’ve probably secured reservations in hell. We don’t care if they serve beer in hell – we just want Blue Hawaiis.
MICHELLE RICK and BAMF also enjoy rating boys at the Rec Pool and butchering songs at karaoke. Send butcherable song suggestions to firstname.lastname@example.org. But only if “Glee” hasn’t butchered it first.