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Opinion >> Wednesday Hump
Well now that you’ve all had the glory of saying you hooked up with a French maid, a firefighter or a slutty version of Kate Middleton, it’s time to snap out of that Halloween daze and get back to reality. Yes, the Wednesday Hump is reality. But, in honor of Halloween weekend, let’s talk about out-of-towners. Yeah, they’re fucking annoying, and they’re like desperate eighth-graders begging to fit in, but don’t lie — they have a special place in our hearts (especially when they’re nicely wrapped in a person that’s not themselves).
We love to hate them, and we hate to love them. Half the girls walk around wearing something so short the whole world can see their pancreas; the guys all find it necessary to throw their arms around any girl that comes within two feet of them, and we’re not sure whether we should be offended or just use it to our advantage.
There’s a fine line between a walk of shame and just starting around two (or three … or four) hours too early. Is it really kosher to be dressed in a thong and bra, wandering DP before noon yelling, “I’m a Victoria’s Secret Angellllllll”?
Yeah. Okay. Where are your wings, bitch?
And what about the Douche Lord who’s attempting to brag about his sex life 24/7, and trying to justify bringing home those tore-up-from-the-floor-up girls, too. “Yeah, you know you gotta slay some dragons before you get the princess. It’s whatever bro. Just livin’ the dream.”
These things would never happen without our beloved out-of-towners. We, on the other hand, are too self-proclaimed goddamn brilliant to say these things (or at least get caught saying them).
But see, one of two things happens when we bring an out-of-towner back to our humble abode: we either try that one thing in bed that we’ve always wanted to try, or we fall in love.
Have you ever wanted to do something absolutely obnoxious just to see what the other person’s reaction would be? Like, could you imagine having sex with a girl, pulling out, cumming on her face and yelling triumphantly, “I’ve got 99 problems but a baby ain’t one”? Maybe that’s too absurd, but I’m pretty sure her face would be priceless — and not just because it would be covered in jizz.
Halloween is a great time to try out the whole role-playing thing, but there are some people who take their outfits way too seriously. You scored Kim Kardashian, well a girl pretending to be her … close enough, and then halfway through sex she says, “Ohh, can you actually move a little to the left? I think the video camera might be cutting you off.” Shit. Hopefully you dressed as Ray J.
Sometimes, though, we fall into the trap. Anyone can be super cool when a) you’re only talking to them for 20 minute increments and b) you know that there’s a 98 percent chance you’re never going to see them again. They can easily lie about how fucking awesome they are pre-bone, and then once it’s realized that modern technology was invented, they’ll be scrambling to revamp their Facebook on the three hour ride home before it’s safe to accept your friend request.
But regardless of how cool we might think they are, we get to ride on our own ego boost the entire time. They think our over-used jokes are fucking hilarious because they haven’t heard them 76 times like the rest of our friends. You basically build a pseudo-relationship that lasts 96 hours, tops. It’s pretty hard to fuck up with that time frame, so it’s pretty easy to think that this out-of-towner is the coolest person ever. If only they had gone to UCSB, then all of your dreams and fantasies would come true.
On Monday, once the out-of-towners got the fuck out of our way, we got to party with the true Isla Vistians. And, as you were raging your face off — ‘cause it’s a school night and you have a midterm tomorrow but that doesn’t matter because we live in fucking Santa Barbara, man — there comes that awkward moment when dream boy isn’t so dreamy anymore, and he actually lives on Sabado (oh, fuck) … and you’re dressed as Rihanna, and he’s … uh … Chris Brown.
Daily Nexus sex columnist Elizabeth Brooks is probably one of those girls that wore the t-shirts with “Slut Barn” written on them last Floatopia.