Because Even Easter Needs A Pre-Game…

March 30th 2013
I’ve never pre-gamed with elephants before.
But I guess there’s a first time for everything.
I can explain:
“Hey, Olive! I’ve got extra tickets. Free tickets. To the circus. Wanna go?”
I relayed a not-so casual


Followed by a warranted dance that looked like this:



And 3 months later…we were on our way.
Fuck yes.

“Ladies and gentleman, just so you know…shit’s about to get really…really weird.”

We ventured to the deep depths of Brooklyn, ready to see leopards a rogue, bunnies a bound and questionably-decorated elephants and humans posing about.
Yah trick yah!

Yah trick yah!

Nah trick....nah.

Nah trick….nah.



These tigers are so fucking obedient.


human cannonball

That’s one fly bitch.


Going for a bike ride, wanna come?

Going for a bike ride. You down? (…Or up? Idk.)


And eventually, after getting our minds blown to Ke$ha glitter, we decided to to make a night of it. To keep this evening of unexpected bedazzlement going.
But where?!
To the windows?
To the walls?
To the sweat drops down my balls?
To the clubs?
Make a call?
To a wine bar filled with Pauls?
We stuck with the animal theme and frolicked to
“Turkey’s Nest Tavern”
My kind of after party.

Hey hott stuff.


What’s the Turkey’s Nest, you ask?

A  fuck-free environment sporting large styrofoam cups filled to the brim with flattened Coors Light and standards that just couldn’t come out to play.
As it goes.

As it goes.

Needless to say, shit got weird.
Real weird.
No sooner that we had sat down with our cups of overfLoWiNg happiness, were we surrounded by an unfortunate medley of unwarranted eye contact and undersized pants.
We spotted a juke box in the far corner of the bar and decided trade in a couple of quarters for some modern-day jamz.
Meg began
through our limited choices with inebriated eyes and eventually she made a classy and executive decision and said:
We felt a heavy breathing from behind our shoulders. A human hovercraft of sorts. A human hovercraft that said this:
“Ay yo maybe you shu change the name of dat song ta HEY HO and meet me on the dance FLO!
“Heyho” (as I immediately dubbed this man) and friends immediately began going ape shit, solidifying their satisfaction of his most recent joke through noises like:
Chest pump
Hand slide
One of these:
Unphased by his spontaneous poetry, Meg pointed at him and said:
"Ew that makes you sound like you have an STD!"

“Ew that makes you sound like you have an STD!”

To which he said

“Wut can I say baby gurl. Imma diiirrrrrttttyyyy boy.”

No one was turned on by this.
And the song was tainted shortly afterwards.
Heyho lingered for a majority of the night, inflicting various episodes like, introducing us to his attire:
“Yo. Check it. DIS BE MY MUSCLE TEE.”
"Yo. Check it. DIS BE MY MUSCLE TEE."

How goes it…muscle tee…

Followed by a distribution of his business card that posed bar-friendly questions like:
“Got Diabetes?”
“Got High Blood Pressure?”
Nope...but uh...thanks for asking...

Nope…but uh…thanks for asking… *puts down sugary margarita*


Followed by an offering of his authentic e-mail address cleverly spelling “life”…”lyfe” with a series of numbers attached to the end of it. You know, just in case we wanted to…keep in touch:
So clever.

Lookin professional Heyho

But wait.
There’s more.
He even threw in a free gift.
A magnet.
A magnet with a collage of meese (my preferred plural of moose)
 with a lingering troll hand drawn in the bottom left hand corner:
Gaggle of meese + a troll. Classic party favor.

Gaggle of meese + a troll named Janet? Let’s get this party started.

Free gifts and muscle supplement opportunities in hand, I very willingly twirled the fuck around and attempted flee the free gifting-t-shirt introduction ways of Heyho.
I was greeted by someone else.
Someone with a hat.
Someone with a hat and a matching sweater.
Cool hat.

Cool combo.

I can’t recall his name.
So we’re going to go with a classic name. Like. Bartholomew.
Barth threw a margarita is someone’s face.
Then moseyed over in our direction. And as it turns out, he was a distant frenemy of Heyho ready to stir up drama at the local Turkey’s Nest. I explained to him that Heyho showered me with free gifts and cotton tee intros, and asked him if he could per chance “Top that shit?”
And so he rapped.
And it really twasn’t until the next morning when I played back the video of his recorded rap on my cellular device, that I witnessed myself dancing like a free-style animal to his homemade lyrics of:
“Ay yo trick ya you looking like a Hatian, but wait – OH SHIT! YOU’S AN ASIAN! I wanna spank ya’ll, from ya ankles, then I wanna eat some biscuits from BOJANGLES.”
So this is Bojangles.

^ Bojangles.

At that time the specifics of his hand-crafted lyrics fell on deaf ears. Very understandable that he would be misled by our interest seeing as we were dancing like the unicyling basketball players we watched at the circus just a few hours before.
Spank me from my ankles, you say? UNICYCLES! ASSEMBLE!

Spank me from my ankles, you say? Can’t. We busy.

Once we struck our final pose of this synchronized routine, we decided to invest in our craving of the local “Fucked up lemonades” served at a bar called “Berry Park” nearby, leaving Heyho and Barth at the mercy of the Turkey’s nest.
Berry Park was a goddamn success.
Lemonade was there, dignity couldn’t make it, but sent many a bearded man in his place. #Brooklyn.
And at some point, in between telling the bartender he had a really sparkly face and making a toilet paper castle in the nearby restroom—sola—I eventually caught the eye of one lad. One lad that stood above the rest.
But only because I knew this fool.
And he knew me too. He was a friend…of a neighbor’s…friend. I had encountered a few times before. We embraced. Took a pic.
This lad.

This lad.

And had a conversation that was as sweet as my diabetic lemonade…until he said:
“Man…I haven’t seen you in forever…wait…I think the last time I saw you, you and a friend broke into my apartment at 3 AM, drank all my blue gatorade, threw almonds around my living room, wrapped yourself in my roommate’s bath towels and then started singing the Borat soundtrack.”
I needed to flee.
And I needed to flee now.
I corralled my friends that were not so nearby and forced them to leave the Berry Park premises.
No explanations necessary.
It was now 3:30 AM and we needed to embark on our Upper East Side endeavor—immediately.


Grandma Barb was due at my doorstep at 9 AM sharp for easter morning toast.
I must get home. I must get home  now. I must be responsible. I MUST CELEBRATE JESUS.
But wait.
 …Great. Oden’s. Raven.
There it was.
With a glowing light.
Calling my strange-ass name.
Comparable scenarios can be linked to Harold and Kumar with White Castle.
Perhaps even William Shatner when he’s discovered a whopping good deal on
But there it was. The beautiful. The perfect.
Meatball Shop.
meatball shop brooklyn

I love you.

I’d like to tell you we went in for a snack.
Perhaps even to split an entree and cheers with a drink.
But in all confession…we ordered $75…worth of meatballs.
(receipt thrown away due to copious amounts of shame)
Pesto balls. Marinara balls. Mushroom balls. Side of mashed potatoes and a request for extra Broccoli cheddar risotto.
We screamed with happiness.

Blame the meatballs.


Get in my mouth.


I even winked at a table of hott men nearby only to realize one glance later that they were all sporting gay pride tees with perfectly manicured hands and haircuts.
As it goes.

As it goes.

And with that we journeyed home.
Knowing full well our appetizer to the sacred holiday of Easter was appropriately pre-gamed with elephants, a rap-off and of course, balls. 
Hope everyone has a fabulous Easter.
Here’s a gif of a couple of bunnies in cups to get the party started:
You're welcome.

You’re welcome.