Monday, January 26, 2015

Studies in Humiliation Vol. 1: That Time I Threw My Undies on Stage at The Jersey Shore

I'm thinking of developing yet another recurring feature on O.H.M. called Studies in Humiliation, where I profile a particularly spectacular and humiliating moment from my past. 

Welcome to the first installment.

I loathe The Jersey Shore more than any place in the Milky Way galaxy after The Hamptons, Ikea, my gynecologist's office, and the DMV. Everything about The Jersey Shore disgusts me to the core of my being, from the beaches themselves, to the traffic to get there, to the largely insufferable people that appear to populate it wall-to-wall at all times of year. If it weren't for the fact that actual human beings rely on the economy of The Jersey Shore and live there, I'd be perfectly happy to see it sink underwater forever even sooner than it's inevitably going to.

Back in NYC, I had some friends with a summer house share on The Jersey Shore, and they convinced me to go with them for a long weekend there in the summer of 1999 or maybe 2000. This was before Snooki and The Situation and human salami stain Chris Christie cemented The Shore in the American consciousness as the ultimate vacation hot-spot for cheese dicks everywhere (although I believe it was well on its way to achieving this vaunted status at the time).

On the night in question, the band “Big Orange Cone” was playing at a bar to an audience of about 500 choade-smoking-sons-of-cheddar-dicks and their scantily clad girlfriends in clear Lucite heels.

As you will see if you click the above link, "Big Orange Cone" is one of the (self-proclaimed) “hottest and most rapidly growing and requested acts on the northeast club circuit today. The Cone, composed of some very young faces, performs frantic live shows featuring some hugely energetic versions of just about everything under the sun!”

Translation: this washed-up cover-band of 40-something part-time wedding/bar mitzvah singers is trying and failing to look 15 years younger than they are and also came up with their own nickname, "The Cone." They keep playing the same tired, sticky New Jersey bars over and over again, yet are making money doing it because stupid assholes like you keep paying to watch them. Fair warning: A minimum of 16 double Long Island Iced Teas is required to tolerate (much less enjoy) more than fifteen seconds of this band.

Because I was 22, drunk, AND bored (a combination that only a night out on The Jersey Shore can produce), and Big Orange Cone was so terrible, I decided I would mix things up a little and toss my undies on stage. So I reached under my skirt and sling-shot those bad boys right up to the front. 

The lead singer for Big Orange Cone—I think he's the one with the frosted tips, or actually maybe the one who looks like the test-tube love child of Raggedy Andy and Justin Bieber--caught them. Well, I don't need to tell you what happened next. 

But I will. 

This wannabe-David-Lee-Roth-from-Van-Halen-impersonator douche-burger had the nerve to take a break from his caterwauling and gyrations to mock the size AND style (fortunately not the smell) of my perfectly awesome blue and green Victoria Secret silk panties! Also fortunately, the size of the crowd made it virtually impossible to determine the exact location in the room from whence these panties flew.

I wanted to be offended, and tell this guy he was lucky ever to see a pair of women’s underpants in any context, but I realized I had no one but myself to blame for throwing my panties to a douche of this magnitude in public, much less in some other way. I called a friend who reinforced my error and expressed zero sympathy, despite the fact that I was crying (as usual for this time-period in my life) and feeling sorry for myself (also as per usual).

To paraphrase a classic line from Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles: I can’t believe I gave my panties to a douche.

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