When I left off, I had abandoned Megan on the bathroom floor in the cabin, pants around her ankles, to go to bed. And I didn’t feel bad. You can read about that (and everything else you may have missed) by scrolling to the bottom of this link’s page.
It was photo day. The simultaneously dreaded and revered day when a couple thousand women (and a handful of dutiful dudes) wait in line for hours to quickly file by a tired and irritated Danny, Donnie, Jordan, Joe and Jon (always in that order) before the split-second snap of a photo we won’t see for almost a month. It’s…nerve-wracking. This particular morning was rough because we were both pretty hungover. And, there was an awkward tension in the cabin since Megan knew she had blacked out, and since I was being oddly silent. I just didn’t really know what to say. I didn’t wake her up until we absolutely had to go find our photo group. I mean, until I thought we should probably go find them. Since our photo group had made zero plans to meet up, aside from After-Party-Melissa very drunkenly telling me to get up early and get in line to save a spot. I literally laughed in her face and said that I don’t hold spots. Because I am perpetually late for everything. Not because I’m too good. But kinda that, too.
Megan was being very agreeable and way too nice, to make up for her antics the night before. It was uncomfortable. We’re not typically overtly nice to each other. We like each other. We’re friends. But we’re not sugary sweet. She was wearing sunglasses indoors because she physically couldn’t be without them. I suspect that’s why Donnie is always wearing his. Bloodshot eyes are sexy in fluorescent lighting. We made our way up to deck 5, through the noise and lights of the casino and scanned the line for a cluster of white and denim, which had been deemed the wardrobe theme of our group. Megan’s answer to the theme was to look a lot like Justin Bieber. Well, like Kate McKinnon as Justin Bieber. Mine was to begrudgingly wear a t-shirt and jeans. Which is a little blue-collar for my taste. Because I’m blue-collar at my roots, and I’ve been fighting against it my whole life. By lying, mostly. Because I’m certainly still poor. But I prefer black so I can pretend my curves are more Kardashian than Michelin Man. We didn’t see anyone from our group anywhere, so we decided to sit down at the quarter-push machines in the casino, and watch the line snake by. To be honest, it was all we could handle at the moment.
Meg went to buy some drinks, another thing she was doing in an effort to apologize. I kept telling her it wasn’t that bad, but I also wasn’t going to say no to drinks. I needed to get my bloodstream back to baseline, after all. She came back with mimosas, maybe. I honestly can’t remember. It was a month ago, basically. We did notice that when you sit down at the quarter-push machines, every once in awhile, the boat will rock, and knock quarters down so you can play for free. This was delightful news. And is exactly what we did for the next couple of hours as we waited for our group to materialize. We also poached two Danny girls from someone else’s group after hearing that ours had defected. (Shout out, ladies!) Once we found our group and got in line, we were almost at the entrance to the club. There wasn’t a ton of time to primp, which was fine because my face was a lost cause at that point, anyway. My hungover eye kept watering (just one) and I was pretty sure lipstick wasn’t allowed with that casual outfit, but I did it anyway. The other ladies in the group are tall, blonde and beautiful. Megan and I ruined their aesthetic. A lot.
I’m going to be honest and tell you that I have no idea what I said or did to any of the guys when we finally approached them for our photo. I blacked out. Not in a drunk way, but in a panic way. As you can probably tell by now, I’m very cool. But I lose that cool the second I’m faced with these fellas. I do remember saying, “At least you won’t be in the blog this year” to Q as I passed him, prompting him to nod, relieved. I mean, technically he is in it, now. But not in the same, supposedly slanderous way as last year. Since I don’t remember interacting with the guys, let’s play a fun game and roast them, instead. Sound good? Good.
Danny looked like he had just sold these two a non-refundable gym membership. He was standing so far away from the rest of the group, I’m pretty sure he was low-key promoting Solo Wood. Danny looked like if my actual dad went back in time and started lifting every weight. The only thing his outfit is missing is mid-calf black socks and a flat-bill hat. Danny looked like he had just slammed a protein smoothie and was mentally calculating how long he would be able to clench his butt cheeks to avoid squeaking out some noxious gas. Danny’s shins looked like he might have oiled up before the photo marathon. Might. Danny looked like black clothing only, floating on a green screen of hardwood floor. Get it? Callback to the hardwood floor joke!
Donnie looked like he had just been fired from that strip club all the Magic Mike guys are excited about opening in Miami. Donnie looked like his own security guard. He looked like the personification of waking up at 2pm in Vegas on a Tuesday. Donnie looked like those women’s Uncle Brett, who always touches them a little too far down on their backs when he hugs them. He looked like somewhere, hidden on his body, is a Monster Energy Drink tattoo and inner regret about never becoming a Motocross star. Donnie looked like there might be cocaine residue on his abs, but that he probably didn’t know how it got there.
Jordan looked like an actual murderer. Like a masseuse who offered up his services for free in a Hungarian hostel, but instead of massages, he just gave out stabbings. Jordan looked like he was just remembering something mean he said to a bully in 1978. He looked like a substitute teacher at the school all the kids from that movie Kids went to. Jordan looked like he slammed their two heads together 30 seconds after this picture was taken. He looked like he was actively pinching Amber and Melissa.
Joe looked like his mom had Kohl’s Cash. He looked like the first day of 8th grade. Joe looked like his favorite song is anything by Ariana Grande. His hair looked like Dwight Schrute went through the Stephon Urkel transformation and became suddenly attractive. Joe looked like he might have just placed a Craigslist Casual Encounters ad for diaper play. He looked like a prom photo background. Joe looked like he would smell like Curve for Men and skating rinks.
Jon looked like a perfect angel who I would never roast because he’s too pure. But Megan looked like she was about to get arrested for throwing Faberge Eggs at someone’s house and driving 115 mph down Los Angeles streets.
I know you are all smart, my dear readers, and you know I love these men with all of my cold, dead heart. But I love roasting and I never get to do it so I thought I’d combine a few of my loves for your pleasure. But by all means, if you’re mad. Let me know. I love hate mail.