It started off like every other Sunday morning: hungover. After farting around for most of the morning and afternoon, my best bro (Unapologetic in DC) and I (the sixsix), jump in Bro-Blazer and head to the day's main event: Tom Petty preceded by Crosby, Stills, and Nash.I know what you're thinking: why would you waste your money to watch a couple geriatrics mess up some classic guitar rock tunes? It's simple: this very concert represents the nexus of Cougardom. Like flies to shit they gather; and we too must follow.
With the standard concert accoutrement- beer, Joose, hookah, shot glasses, lack of social couth or any sense of limitations, etc.- we begin the party. Tailgate open, a cool breeze hastens the coming twilight as we begin our power hour. Now, I know what you are thinking, and the answer is yes... the Joose was used during the power hour. As the 'gate wraps up and last night's hangover begins to recede, we make our way towards our seats (lawn, naturally).
Before climbing the Everest that is the Jiffy Lube Pavilion, we are sure to hydrate with tall boys of Icehouse and Miller Lite. And what a sight it is when we finally reach that dastardly summit. I don't know what it is about a concert that literally attracts the most incredibly bizarre freakshows the region has to offer, but sure as night is day and Doogie Howser's gay, the concert is a literal who's who of Northern Virginia's stomach-churning excuses for humanity. It is pure, unadulterated beauty.
We find our seats next to some kindly cougars and an off-puttingly large mess of a mammal, who, for the sake of anonymity we'll call Sally Struthers. Sally is your classic urban redneck. You know the type... the one with the jorts that travel to just south of their sternum and that barely hold in the excess gallons of oozing, white flesh. She has on a black Crosby, Stills, and Nash shirt and big black leather boots riding up to her translucent knees. Lip-syncing every word to every CSN song, her beautiful mullet glistens in the early-August twilight. And yes, this horse's mane resembles a Polish mullet, perfectly stylized. WHITE-collar business in the front, freakshow party in the back. Tied together with perfectly apportioned blond streaks. Needless to say, this wildebeest of a woman provided nearly endless entertainment for the length of the concert.
Despite a solid parking lot effort to catch a buzz, we knew what had to be done: more brewdogs. We start crushing on man-size Icehouses and Miller Lites like it's going out of style. Soon, CSN finished their set and the sweet squawking of Tom Petty begins.
Somewhere in between, "I Won't Back Down" and "Free Fallin'" a delightful cougar (45 years old-ish) approaches Unapologetic and asks "How old are you?"
"Twenty something," he responds. To which, the cougar, pointing to his hands says, "Old enough to drink beer, young enough to wear Silly Bands."
"You bet your sweat ass," I chime in, "one for every slampiece he's bagged."
The cougar, who we'll call Demi for this story, is immediately impressed. She's on the prowl and the hunt is on.
The sun is down. After a few more casual encounters, Demi returns with her friend... we'll call her Agatha. The dancing begins. Now, if you know anything about sixsix, it's this: I'm an incredible dancer. I've been called the male version of Adam Sevani. It's true. I'm also dressed in the finest clothes Vineyard Vines could provide. Simply put, I'm incredible. And so is Unapologetic. He's adorned himself with paint-stained shorts and a simple navy blue polo that scream "I don't give a fuck." He's a stunning specimen like myself. Point is, it's only natural that these women have Niagara falls running between their legs just from sitting in the same section as us. Perfectly understandable.
More brewdogs. The dance party is on. Demi, is admittedly more attractive than Agatha. And it just works out that she goes with Unapologetic and I got Agatha. Shit. She's dancing up a storm in front of me as I gradually step back, keeping cock's distance away. Demi is grinding on Unapologetic at this point. I know my role: don't blow this for Unapologetic. It's rare that this situation presents itself. A cougar hookup is a delicate ecosystem and must be maintained with the utmost care. I'm the wingman. Fair enough. But that doesn't mean, I'm going to lose all dignity. I still have a little bit of that, right? It may be hanging on like Leo to a wooden plank in the North Atlantic, but it's there. And I'm going to avoid all contact with this grenade if it's the last thing I do. I'm barely sober enough to know that I don't want any of this creature. I let her grind as the tonsil hockey begins between Demi and Unapologetic. Still, my hands were in the air. I wanted there to be no mistaking that I was taking this for the team.
Freeze Frame. Look over to the right. A completely random couple plops themselves down next to us and start fucking. Cowgirl, reverse cowgirl... quick wipe up... and they're gone.
Back to the action on the field. The dancing, the grinding, the scene continues. That's when it happens. I feel something creeping down behind my belt. Going further south than James Cook, she grabs hold of the sixsix python and begin working. Not gonna lie, without a lot of space in the yellow shorts, she knew how to really work. Impressive for someone, who (and I base this purely on looks) did not have a lot of practice. Then we kiss, and it was gross. She was terrible. Ugh. Just as I'm ready to finish up in the South Pole... the concert ends and that inconsiderate bitch pulls her hand out and starts clapping. You fucking whore! Don't you know the show is down here! I'll tell you when to clap. Rather, you will know when to clap, trust me.
Then it ends, just as quickly and abrasively as it began, our dignity just barely intact and with blue balls to boot. We pace towards the car. And by pace, I mean stumble over everything and everyone in our way. Following a solid post-concert 'gate with a quick hookah side sesh, we drive our drunk asses home. God, I love concerts.
UPDATE: The following morning Demi Facebook friended Unapologetic (the desperate bitch) and it turns out she's... wait for it... MARRIED WITH CHILDREN. Game, set, match. Dignity restored, Brodom elevated to new heights. The saga continues...
Sorry For Partying defined: the act of apologizing for having an awesome time; in no situation does this saying not apply. Of course, anyone with half a brain will realize this is a sarcastic apology, and we only say it to placate those who are less enthusiastic than we are about anything that falls under the general category of "partying."