A toas to you, Girl who pretends to know sports - In my mind, there is nothing sexier than a girl who can talk sports. Especially basketball. In fact, the girls in my life who I have connected with most have always been big sports fans (especially this one girl who is also a Celtics fan) When I look for a girl thats a priority for me. Because when I get older I want to be able to take my girlfriend or wife to Celtics games with me and not have her be filing her nails or asking me whats going on the whole fucking time. (Pay attention to the game bitch. Those tickets are expensive.)

But what I hate, I mean absolutely despise, Is when a some people are talking about sports, and some girl who keeps commenting pretends she actually knows what she is talking about when, in reality, she could test as a legal retard.

“The Texas Cowboys are my favorite team. Yeah because my dad loves them and I love their colors…..OHHH and their star is pretty. My favorite player is number 1. What’s his name? Peyton Mannings, he’s hot”

Come on bitch.

OK where do I start…..hmmmmm…..OK here it goes:

- OK its the DALLAS Cowboys…by the way. Yes, that does matter…..Yes, I know Dallas is IN texas. But so is Houston, which has their own team, the Texans. No, not the Houston Texas, the Houston TexaNs. Yes Texans. Nevermind, lets move on.

- Oh your dad loves them? Thats nice. I sure hope he is a Cowboy fan for more than their colors and their pretty star….I hope. Unless you have two dads. Then it makes more sense.

- Your favorite player is number 1? Peyton Mannings does not wear the number 6 he wears number 18. In fact, Peyton Manning (notice Manning is singular here) he isn’t even on their team. Number 1 on the Cowboys is their punter….Are you sure you know what you’re saying?

If you don’t know what you’re talking about, shut the fuck up. Derek Jeter does not play Shortstuff for the New York Giants. And LeBron Bryant? Those are two different people.

Please. Please. No More. Please.

So anyway, like I said, it really turns me on when a girl can have a real conversation with you about sports. Any sport. Even baseball. Major brownie points. But If you TRY to talk sports and fail miserably, I would rather you look like Steve Buscemi than listen to you verbally butcher my favorite thing in the world, sports. At least then we might be able to have a conversation without me putting a needle in my ear.

And so, a toast to you, Girl who pretends to know sports, I hate you, we hate you. If you don’t know what you’re talking about then keep your fucking mouth shut. If you do know what you’re talking about…. give me a call ;)

A toast to you, the One-Upper - Now I can’t be too hard on this guy, because I am a self-proclaimed one-upper. However, some guys just take it to the extreme. Yes, I like to win everything, even conversations. But I rarely say what I’m thinking out loud. I usually keep the thought of how much more physically awesome I am than them, to myself. So if someone says “I just made 9 out of 10 cups in that game and we still lost” I’m quietly thinking to myself “I did that too once, but we won.” 

So on this post, I feel that I can be some sort of an expert.

Although I am a stage 1 one-upper, there are guys out there who really take this shit to the next level. These guys literally make shit up just so they can seem better than whoever they’re around. Let me give you an example:

OK, so me and my boys get pretty rowdy when someone chuggs really fast. I mean, what is more masculine than inhaling an ice cold brew at light speed while your friends cheer you on. Your eyes tear up from the frostiness. You usually end up getting some all over your shirt. You feel like you’re going to throw up right after. 

It’s fucking awesome.

But say we go outside and put 3 beers in a funnel. My buddy chuggs all 3 in ridiculous speed without barfing right after (you know who you are). Immediately, since this is fucking awesome, we begin shouting it into the party.

“Guys, he just funneled 3 beers at once!!!”

That’s when we see the true colors of the one-upper.

“Oh man I remember when I did that once. But then I shot-gunned right after I was so drunk hahahahahahaha”

Cue anger explosion in 5…..4…..3…..2…..1….Shut the fuck up! No you fucking didn’t! Thats an outrageous statement, you stupid fucking FUCK!!!

I have no issue with thinking to yourself how much more awesome you are than everyone else. Like I said, I do that shit all the time. But when you actually open your mouth and say this shit out loud, you look like a big fat used tampon.

And have you ever realized that the one-upper always has to make it seem like he wasn’t trying to be a complete dick head by one-upping you. Like after someone says they got to level 28 on Call of Duty Nazi Zombies, this one-upping cock sandwich will say some sort of statement that will make it seem like what he is about to one-up you with isn’t actually super douche-y.

“Yeah, I used to suck at Zombies, but like last weekend I got to level 45.” (this is actually a typical comment from one of my close friends)

OK, here is the controller, show us how its done then asshole.

“No I can’t man I hurt my thumb last week.”

Yeah maybe you hurt it when you were thumbing your awesome self in the ass.

For the last time: No you’ve never had a threesome. You never drank 15 beers in a power hour. You’ve never driven your car up to 130mph (Kia Soul doesn’t go that fast). You’ve never eaten a 5lb burger. You’ve never thrown a football 70 yards. You’ve never built your own robot and NO you’ve never been asked to star in a movie but turned it down because you thought it was lame. 

And so, a toast to you, One-Upper. Although I am like you (except way more awesome), everyone else hates you. 

A toast to you, Girl who thinks every song is about her life - I feel like almost every girl I meet feels this way about some song.

No fucking way is any song written about your life! 

Just because the lyrics of Lady Gaga’s song talk about drinking, dancing, having problems with boys, being a slut and loving your betches, doesn’t mean they’re about your life. It just means she knows how fucking stupid you are to think these songs are your “anthems” and she keeps writing them to get you to buy them. 

Let me give you a scenario:

Everyone is having a good time, drinking, playing games, laughing, dancing, and listening to some sort of good music like Girl Talk. Great Party

THEN, some dumb drunk bitch who has been yelling “Play Poker Face! Play ffffucking Poker Face!” for the past like 30 minutes as she tries to keep from throwing up the 4 HALF-shots of Burnett’s “Cheesecake and Butter” flavored Vodka gets up, goes over to the laptop or iPod that’s hooked up, looks up this shitty song, and starts blaring it. And no, that was not a real flavor. You’re disgusting for even thinking that

It’s as if someone put Buzz Killington himself in the room. Everyone stops having fun as this drunk slut starts dancing by herself on a table thats about to break. (trust me, tables break) Not only is she making a fool of herself by dancing like a stripper on a table by herself, her dress is falling off her shoulder while simultaneously running up her legs. (which, if she is sexy, is pretty awesome) Her drink is spilling out of her cup onto the carpet and she is screaming out the lyrics like a second after they’re being said in the song.

The song is turned off to avoid the whole party lighting themselves on fire and so it can go back to being enjoyable again. This bitch starts crying (see: Crying girl), the party goes on.

A few minutes later, the iPod shuffle shuffles onto Beyonce’s “Maneater.” (obviously a sluts iPod. Or a gay guy. Like on of those gay guys who isn’t afraid to have Maneater on his iPod and put it on shuffle at a party). The same bitch perks up like there is a 10-incher thats attached to Bradley Cooper dangling in her face. “Oh my Gawwwwd. This is my jammmmm!!!!” You’re not a fucking Maneater. Nobody is a Maneater. Except for maybe this guy . You’re just a dumb slut. Anyway, the steps i listed above repeat themselves. 

Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

Bitch, if you’re gonna come, bring headphones so you can listen to your own shitty list of 856 songs that are “about your life.”

And so, a toast to you, Girl who thinks every song is about her life, No its fucking not and we hate you.

A toast to you, Asian guy who thinks he’s “like at least part black” - This one is pretty popular. I don’t know why this is, but Asian guys in college are either really nerdy or they think they’re black. By “thinking they’re black” I don’t mean they actually think their skin color is black and they are of African descent, I just mean they dress like a “Gangsta” or “thug” or “Ghetto” person, like black people typically do.

Now I have no problem with black people wearing pants down to their knees, du-rags, wife beaters, flat brim hats, Jordans and gold chains…It’s their culture and I respect it. But Asian guys, what they fuck are you thinking?! You are not black. No, not even a little bit. You are Asian. Your majoring in Math with a minor in Yao Ming. 

You don’t come from the ghetto. You don’t have any “nigga” friends. Putting a du-rag on your head underneath a Seattle Mariners flat brim will not make you black. It will just make you look like Ichiro. You are most definitely not “like, at least part black.” Just because you aren’t white, does not mean you are “part black” it just means you’re fucking Asian. Even if you have 1 or 2 or 10 black friends, you are still Asian. Their black doesn’t rub off onto you. Believe me, Chris Anderson has tried. (absolutely click that hyperlink)

So more using ebonics. No more calling each other “dawg” and “homie.” You all look like Ash from Pokemon, its just impossible for you to look black. Just act like normal Asians. Put R’s where there are supposed to be L’s. Trade Magic cards. Talk about your calculator functions. Be a doctor. Come up with new math theorems. Play the violin. I don’t care what you do, but stop pretending you’re black.

So here’s a toast to you, Asian guy who thinks he’s “like at least part black.” No you’re fucking not, and we hate you.

A toast to you, Girl with the rolling backpack - Although this one is not someone you would find at a party, remember that this blog is about people we hate seeing around campus, not just at parties. Parties just happen to have the highest number of people we hate. Now, back to the toast.

HOW FUCKING OLD ARE YOU?! A rolling backpack?! Not only was this a trend from middle school, it wasn’t even a cool trend. All the weird kids who wanted to grow up to be wizards when they’re older had them.

You’re in college now where you have like two classes a day where, in most, you have to bring like one textbook and a notebook to each one. Maybe your laptop too. But still, how much of a pussy are you that you can’t wear your, at top weight, a 25 pound backpack on your back like a normal fucking person. It’s called a BACKpack. Not a rollpack.

Not only do you look like the biggest fucking tool in class when you wheel up your backpack to the side of your desk before you press the little button to make the handle go down. (Ohhhh sweet. Retractable handle. That must’ve cost you a pretty penny) But you don’t even know how to drive that thing. You wheel it down the hall running it into the shins of every other person you walk by. Then you get to the stairs and you have to drag it down or up making it impossible to walk up the stairs behind you. Its like its full of the dead bodies your friends who killed themselves because YOU had a fucking rolling backpack and they couldn’t bear to be seen with you anymore. 

We’re not at an airport. Grab a backpack like a normal person and get to class you jackass. They’re like 5 bucks at walmart. No need to spend 40 bucks on a glorified suitcase that just makes you look like you’re an 11 year old kid with the physical deformity of being a loser. Why don’t you go ahead and grab some Velcro shoes while you’re at it. On second thought, fuck it, those were awesome. You don’t deserve to wear them.

So, a toast to you, Girl with the rolling backpack. We hate you and your stupid fucking suitcase.

A toast to you, The Sober Guy at the Party Who Is Judging All of Us - (a nod to my best friend for this idea) I’m all about having a DD. In my opinion, they are what can make or break a party. It is because of them that we can be so happy and carefree about being at a party and not have to worry about “how are we are going to get home?” or “Did he just drive home drunk?” There is nothing scarier for me than somebody driving drunk. I’m sorry, but it’s just not worth the risk just so you can sleep in your own bed. Grab a couch, snuggle up to a throw-cushion and pass out at the party house. You will save yourself and every one of your friends the aggravation of you driving home drunk, plus it’ll make for a pretty nice “Walk-of-Shame.”

What I do not approve of, however, are sober people coming to a party who are not DD’s. I’m sure you’re a nice guy and that you have a great reason not to drink. Maybe you have a test tomorrow, or you have to get up early for Church or something. But if you can’t be out late drinking, don’t fucking come out. That’s why they created Netflix and RedBox. Well, that and cheap dates. 

The issue I have is that these people stroll (notice I did not say stumble) into our party and immediately start to judge all of us drunk people. Sorry we are normal. Sorry  we are having fun getting wasted and don’t know how to program the iPod dock to play on the TV speakers. Sorry we can’t pronounce the word “peculiar” after a putting away a few ice colds. Sorry that we’re dancing in front of the TV. 

Actually, fuck it. I’m not sorry. If you wanted to sit on the couch and watch TV, stay at home. You can watch Jurassic Park 3 on your own time. 

Don’t come to the party and get all hot and bothered (not too hot, mostly bothered) that we want to dance on the tables, be really loud, and join arm and arm to yell Zac Brown Band’s Colder Weather at the top of our lungs. It’s a fucking party, you douche… Don’t give me that look. Plus, that song is awesome.

No, I won’t grab you a cup so you can go get a glass of ice water. No I won’t move over so you can sit on the couch and look fucking miserable all night. No I won’t quiet down so you can call your sober buddy and tell him how lame all of us are. And No, we don’t have any soda. This isn’t a pizza party. Although, after a few more beers, I could be persuaded….

So here’s to you sober guy at the party who is judging all of us…we don’t hate you. We just hate that you’re there and you’re judging us.

A toast to you, Wounded Soldier Guy - Whenever we have a party at our house, we always dread the cleanup of the following morning. Honestly, I think its worth it. I would trade one night of awesome drinking, followed by a short ten foot walk to my bed, for an hour to an hour and 1/2 of hungover house cleaning, any day.

The morning after begins with the obvious, exiting your room with a killer headache in your boxers to grab something to eat.

Naturally, Toast. 

After you get your toast fix, its time to clean up. But as you begin grabbing empty beer cans to throw in the trash, you realize something. There is about a 2:1 ratio of empty beer cans to beer cans with at least half the beer left in it.

Cue flashback to the night before.

As you try to piece back together the night (voluntarily forfeiting the memories of unsuccessfully spitting desperate game at the “Good Enough Girl Who Won’t Shut Up”- see post) you remember something. There is always one guy who goes around to the people at the party, telling them how many beers he has had. 

“Dude, Dude, Dude. I am so fucked up. This is number 18!”

First of all, no one fucking cares.

Second of all, BULL-FUCKING-SHIT.

No fucking way did this guy drink 18 beers. At most, the guy probably weighs 135 pounds. It’s anatomically impossible for this little douche to hold this much alcohol in his bloodstream and not be rushed to the ER. Clearly, since he is such a lightweight, but does not want to be judged, he keeps grabbing beers, cracking them open, taking four or five sips, then putting it down somewhere in the house and “forgetting about it” so it looks like he has been drinking more than he actually has. (it’s no big deal to be a lightweight bro. It makes for a cheaper weekend.)

Yes, I’ll admit it. I have, on occasion, put my beer down and discovered that the beer fairy has stolen it only to put it in a location you would never think to look in. Like the back part of a toilet or in a box of Apple Jacks (probably looking for some bread to make… what else? toast.) But this guy does not just do it once or twice, he does it a good 7-8 times, scattering them around the house to make it an alcoholic game of Minesweeper for the next day cleaner-upper. 

This action not only slows the next day clean up because the cleaner-upper has to pour out each wounded-soldier before they can be properly dispensed in the garbage bag, but it is also a waste of delicious, golden, $12.99 per case brew-doggies. 

So here’s to you, Wounded-Soldier guy. We hate you and your half finished beers 

A toast to you, Crying Girl - Everyone who has ever been in college knows this girl. At some point during a party, this girl seems to realize that “nobody loves her,” that she’s “never going to find a husband,” that “a guy at the party looks like my 8th grade ex” or that “my life is in shambles”. 

To make matters worse, this bitch can’t just go out back and cry to herself about how terrible her shitty life is in private. No, instead, she looks around for what bro seems to be closest to closing on some slut, grabs the girl he is talking to, and locks herself in a bathroom with her. 

By this time, word gets around that Crying Bitch has locked herself in a bathroom and won’t come out until God makes her 50 pounds lighter, way more attractive and finds her a husband. Her friends, who are, of course, way more attractive than her, leave the bros they were talking to to go behind, and go tend to their “friend.”

When she finally emerges with mascara running down her tear drenched face and snot covering her top lip, this bitch has successfully ruined the night of every single person there. She has successfully cock-blocked every guy there, and she has made every girl there decide to go home early with her, making said party a total Meat house. Great.

Worst of all, she won’t remember any of this tomorrow. She is gonna play the “OMG i was sooo blackout” card so that she can continue to do this at parties whenever she is feeling greatly outnumbered by more attractive girls. 

But thank you Crying Girl, for reminding us just how much we hate you. 

A toast to you, the “looking for a fight” guy - This is one I was just talking about the other night with some of my buddies. There seems to always be that one jackass at the party who is looking to fight anyone and everyone for anything and everything.

OK, we get it, you’re either a small guy who feels like he has to prove himself by picking on the most drunk guy at the party for accidentally spilling some beer near your Air Force One’s (c’mon man, Air Force Ones?) or you’re a pretty hefty guy who wants to prove to his friends that he is not fat, or big boned, or “festively plump,” but that its all muscle and you can beat up anyone there.

This guy is usually easy to spot. he has clearly gone to the clothing store, picked up a shirt that was his size, put it back, and bought the size smaller (props to my best friend for that one).

He could then have a number of other warning signs:

-flat brim hat for the Washington Redskins (in which case, we understand why you’re so angry)

-Wife-beater - You’re either looking for a fight or you ran out of real shirts

-Ed Hardy tshirt. (nothing says I wanna beat the shit out of someone like a shirt covered with flowers, skulls, dragons, metallic colors and beads. To be honest, I hope you do wear this shirt and are looking for a fight, you need to get your ass kicked)

-big chrome watch or belt buckle - Don’t ask me why. They just always have them

-He is going around to everyone telling them he is looking for a fight

-They’re guido. (they love fighting)

-Aforementioned Air Force Ones (see: chrome watch)

-Its Kimbo Slice - In which case, get a pic with him and leave immediately

The issue is, sir, that nobody wants to fight you. Unless of course one guy looking for a fight somehow meets another guy who is looking for a fight, and they fight over who is the best fighter. In which case, grab a beer and enjoy the show. That is until two drunk girls start making out in another room. Then go watch them. That sounds awesome.

Oh, and as for you, “looking for a fight” guy, we hate you.

A toast to you, B-Pong Girl - Otherwise known as “Oh my God, I love B-Pong”-Girl. I have no problem with girls playing BP. I’ve played against some pretty good girls. In fact, I remember one game where a girl made more cups than me. Now I know I’m not the “World’s Best BP player” but lets face it, I’m a guy, and we allllllll know that guys are physically superior to girls when it comes to BP. So when any girl gets the same or more amount of cups as a guy, it’s pretty impressive. The thing that I have a problem with is the girl who is standing next to the BP table, watching the game, trying to get one of the guys at the party to notice her. She has tried every outlet, but no guy is interested. She is on the last resort. She breaks the Party Code-of-Conduct and pushes her way into the “shooting area.” Not only spilling a cup, which the opposing team gladly enforces, she grabs the ball out of your hand and slurs what no male BP player wants to hear: “Can I take a shot?”

Your initial thought is “what the fuck are you doing you sloppy bitch? No, we’re on the last cup!” But before your brain can muster up the power to overcome the initial aneurysm you got when she took the ball right out of your hand mid-hot streak… she shoots, and misses, WIDE RIGHT!! (enjoy that Scott Norwood joke).

Not only did she waste delicious golden beverage by knocking over one of your team’s remaining cups, she took your shot on the last cup, and missed. Unfortunately, your partner is forced to shoot around this girl who begins slurring the typical “I’m usually really good! I’m like way better than all my guy friends.” He also misses. Their shot.

The opposing team, now laughing right in your face, then proceeds to drain the remaining two cups in a row, ending the game. Your run of 5 straight games is over, you’re off the table, and worst of all, that means this girl is going to be talking to you for the entire rest of the night. Fuck. This is my nightmare…

BP Girl, we hate you.

A toast to you, Good enough girl who does not shut up- This girl is absolutely good enough. But she never shuts the fuck up. She enters the party first out of her friends. She’s holding a tumbler with her initial on it. Obviously, since she is a girl, she has to drink her cheap-Vodka-and-Crystal-Light-Pink-Lemonade-mix through a straw. She throws her hand in the air, looking to go up to the first person she knows with a “Oh my FUCKING god _____ !!! How are you???” Even though she has only had this one drink that had at most 2 shots of Vodka in it, her voice escalates to 10 levels louder and she shrieks whenever she sees any familiar face. She “knows” everyone and has something important to say to each and every person at the party. She doesn’t give a shit if you’re mid conversation with your bro about the best matchup in the NBA playoffs, whatever she has to say is “fucking important you asshole!” The worst part is, whenever she sees one of her girlfriends talking to a guy, she gets so upset that no guy is talking to her that she goes up to them and makes shit completely awkward with a “Oh, get it betch!” or “work it slut.” Then you’re left to think if the girl you are talking to really is a “betch” or a “slut.” Even when you do try to talk to her, because, hey, she’s good enough, you can’t get a word in. She is sitting there talking about how much her friends are sluts, how she “fucking loves” this and that, and all you are thinking is….well…good enough

I love toast. I love coming home drunk, unwrapping some really cheap white bread, turning my toaster to the halfway spot between level 4 and 5, pushing the handle down, then reaping my delicious golden prize that pops up after just a few moments. Put a little butter on there, maybe some jam, and I’m set. I would eat it for every meal if I could. The “accoutrement” is cheap. Its easy and quick to make. And most importantly, it is delicious.

But that is not why I have decided to be a huge tool and join the blogging world with the name “Making Toast.” I just love toast.

Instead, this is going to be my outlet. In a Peter Griffin “You Know What Grinds My Gears”-esque list, I have decided to start putting my distaste for some people into words in order to hopefully say what everybody else in college is thinking about them.

Here’s a “toast” to them…