So I was going to do a post about the "REAL ID" system coming into effect to a state near you in 2011 ("It's only to keep the terrorists and those terrible illegal aliens out! We're doing it for your safety! Oh, and to know everything about you and everything you do. But mainly it's for the terrorists!").

However, it's Friday, and that's a bit heavy. So, stolen from Exit 177, who linked up to it, let's learn how to "Party To Win," from Sir Michael Ian Black:

This was my weekend:

After work on Friday, I put on my Axe body spray and headed out into the night. This was a warm-up foray into the dark heart of party. I started at TGIFs. "Party of one?" the hostess asked. "I don't plan on partying for one very long," I responded. Within minutes, the hostess and her two smokin' friends were sharing a heapin' plate of potato skins with me and alternately downing copious amounts of peach liqueur. Potato skins and peach liqueur? Maybe it's not a combination you're familiar with. That's because it's expert level partying. The kind they do on the Greek island of Mekonos. And trust me, once you've gone Greek, you don't look back. Unless it's her back you're looking at while you're drilling her and her two friends in the employee's break room at the TGIF, which is what I was doing about twenty minutes after I arrived.

I strolled out there after paying nothing but getting everything in return. The night was still young, so I drove over to Applebee's to see what was cooking over there. Turns out A LOT! The game was on, and I'm not talking about the football on TV. I met a couple of honeys who had a taste for the finer things in life. Like nachos and my dick.

After Applebee's, it was over to Bennigans for some late night shenanigans. At this point, I was no longer hungry, but my whistle needed some wetting. I ordered a couple shots of Jaegy, and then did my thing with a divorcee who was looking for a little do-re-mi. We hit the dance floor HARD. Creed was on the stereo, and I got a little crazy when Scott Stapp told me to take it higher. I did. Higher, longer, and harder. It was all I could do to keep it in my pants. So I didn't. I twirled it around like a baton and let the majorettes fight over it. Which they did. ALL. NIGHT. LONG. T'wasesome! (Shorthand word I invented for "It was awesome.")

Saturday was pretty much a repeat of Friday. Only instead of TGIF, the Bee, and Benny G's, it was Houlihans, The Cheesecake Factory, and Pizzeria Uno. And instead of hostesses, honeys and a divorcee, it was a kindergarten teacher, a nun, and some dude named Larry. Plus a round of mini-golf with the kid I mentor. And that was just the morning. The afternoon and evening were even SICKER. Lunch was at the Olve Garden where I got my breadstick dipped in a juicy dish of olive oil. Followed by a double order of tiramisu (in this case, not a euphemism for sex), topped off with a cordial consisting of one part brandy, one part peppermint schnapps, three parts black chick riding my cock. Then it was on to Planet Hollywood for my weekly Saturday night blowout.

Hollywood memorabilia competed with my red sequined jumpsuit for attention. I don't need to tell you who won, but I will anyway. I did. I won. It's a good thing co-founders Sly Stallone, Bruce Willis, and Arnold Schwarzenegger weren't in attendance at this particular PH at the Cherry Hill Mall because their stars would have dimmed considerably next to my own galactic luminescence. The Planet spun a little groovier that night, let me tell you. If you've never done it on top of Herbie the Love Bug, you don't know what it means to live. (Unfortunately, I found out later in the week that I contracted my own "love bug" that night. Nothing a strong course of antibiotics won't fix.) I didn't sign any autographs that night, but I definitely made my mark. All over Harry Potter's cape.

Sunday was just a blur. IHOP, Chuck E. Cheese, Dave and Buster's, the library, the Hard Rock Cafe, Perkins, my mom's house, Sea World, The Ground Round, Larry's house for a little blow, Wrigley Field, your mom's house, the Space Needle, every brew pub in the world, outer space, Houlihans again, and of course, what weekend would be complete without a stop at Hooters?

A lot of people think Hooter's best days are behind it. Not me. The brew is still cold, the wings are still hot, and the ass is still young and fat. There's a misconception that there aren't any fat ass Hooters girls. Wrong. And those are the ones you want to target. The best-looking Hooters girls know they're the best-looking ones, but the fat assed ones need a little reassurance that they deserve to wear the mantle. So you compliment them. You butter them up. You let them know that you came for the burgers but you're staying for their muffin. Then you go in for the kill. (Not literally, unless that's your thing. Partiers don't judge other partiers.) My server was named Patty. Patty the Fatty. Did I make that Patty melt? You know it.

The weekend ended at exactly 8:59 am, at my desk, in my cubicle, a spreadsheet in front of me. Believe me, I did a lot of spreading on a lot of sheets that weekend. And a lot of thinking. Thinking about how incredible it is to live in a country where you can live free and party to win. The weeks might be tedious. After all, I can only save so many refugees doing my job at the U.N., but the weekends? T'wasome."

Labels: Michael Ian Black, Party To Win, REAL ID = Getting Closer to 1984 And Yes You Should Be Worried So Write Your Congressman