You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery

by Mamrie Hart

  I led them right into the pandemonium. Talking Heads played on a record player in the corner, and twenty girls in their bras or nahs happily did their thing like it was no big deal. There was a topless gal organizing her cheese tray, another one pulling a slow-roasted pork shoulder out of the oven. It was like a twelve-year-old Mario Batali’s wet dream.

  Just as I was about to completely lie about the square footage of the place, Melissa rounded the corner with a tray full of cocktails. She handed the tray to one of the shocked guests and said, “Two questions. Would you like a Singapore Sling? And who the hell are you?”

  “They saw the For Rent sign and wanted to take a look at the place.”

  “New friends! Let me show you around.” With that she whisked them away for the grand tour as I called out after her, “I’ll try to keep you abreast of any more visitors!” followed by a wink and pointing of a finger gun at myself in the hallway mirror.

  The rest of the night was a total success, bewildered guests and all. We stuffed our faces and even organized a calendar designating each member a Tuesday to lead the lesson or activity. It was the perfect kickoff for what ended up being a solid year of Topless Tuesdays.

  Here’s where I want to take a moment and tell you why I loved this club so much. I’m sure a lot of you read this and wonder, Why no shirt? Couldn’t you have learned to knit and get drunk while also keeping the girls under wraps? Of course we could’ve. But here’s why I think it was important.

  I want to tell you about a certain TT member. Let’s say her name was Claire. Claire came to her first Tuesday not knowing what to expect. She had heard us talk about our club before but didn’t know if the toplessness was just something we talked about for shock value.

  When Claire came to that initiation potluck, I saw her act shy for the first time since I’d known her. She had a great time socializing and drunkenly dished out her cobbler, but she left her shirt on the whole time. About two Tuesdays later, I walked in and saw that Claire was in her bra. A month later she was in tassels. Three months later and the girl was teaching me how to play Chinese checkers butt-ass naked.

  You see, the club was never about the nudity. It was about creating a space, a day, a group of people you didn’t need to impress with your body. Girls spend so much time trying to look good in front of each other, and for what? Do I really care if my friend has a muffin top? Do I give a shit if another friend has weird nipples? FUCK NO. Topless Tuesday was a judgment-free zone. And becoming that comfortable without clothes around my friends actually made me more comfortable in my clothes all the other days of the week. Topless Tuesdays was a place to go, Ah, nobody is perfect. Literally, no body is perfect. So, why do I stress about mine?

  Fast-forward to present day. My friends Hannah, Grace, and I do a live show called the #NoFilterShow, which we tour around from time to time. We do a lot of audience participation, I do a live You Deserve a Drink segment onstage, and it always derails into ridiculousness.

  Don’t mind us. Just three adult women in pencil costumes orchestrating an entire stage show around fart sound effects.

  During one of our recent shows, while doing an old-school dating game bit, I was dressed as an ice-cream sundae and Grace was dressed as a wedge of cheese, with Hannah serving as our host. It’s a silly audience-participation bit that involves (naturally) a lot of puns about whatever costumes we’re wearing. Grace and I usually delve into terrible, self-involved characters who are more concerned with creating the weird story line than actually talking to the audience members who are trying to date us.

  Anyway, as I was sitting there laughing onstage, having fun with my friends, an audience member took it upon himself to scream out “saggy tits” at me. Yes. Go ahead and reread that sentence; take it all in. Saggy tits.

  I was flabbergasted. Normally I would’ve shot back a superclever response in my character’s voice, but I was so caught off guard, I actually kind of blacked out. I only realized from GIFs on Tumblr the next day that I made the guy stand up and told him I was going to murder him. But, like, in a “fun murder” way.

  I should’ve told him that if I have saggy tits I can at least get a breast lift, but there is no operation or amount of money that can ever lift his saggy-ass personality. But I didn’t, and I hate that I didn’t. Luckily, Grace, in her cheese-wedge glory, backed me up and told everyone to subscribe to his YouTube channel, youtube .com/imadick. (Which is probably an actual channel at this point, so I’m sorry–slash–you’re welcome to whoever owns it.)

  All comebacks aside, here is why that arsehole threw me off so bad. I read all kinds of insanely rude comments on my videos. On the Internet, people have the protection of anonymity and say things to you that they would never say to your face. While I hate that aspect of YouTube, it comes with the territory, and I chose to make myself vulnerable to it. But this wasn’t YouTube. This wasn’t a comments section.

  This jackass took a moment when everyone was having fun and decided to be rude about my body. This makes zero sense, and for a variety of reasons:

  A. I was dressed as an ice-cream sundae—the least boob-flaunting outfit of all time!

  B. This wasn’t a high school improv assembly you are forced to go to because it’s also chock-full of latent antidrug messaging. This was a show that everyone in the audience (this guy included) paid twenty-five euros for.

  C. I am the most self-deprecating person I know. I’ve probably made a joke about tucking my tits into my shoes before, because that’s what I think is funny. It’s funny because it’s self-deprecation—not someone else making a dig about my body to my face.

  My ego wasn’t hurt; I was just mad. And here’s why. I am totally comfortable in my body, despite whether I happen to be taking care of it or whether I’m carrying some extra weight. But that might not be the case for everyone who was in that audience. I have no doubt that a good majority of the girls there were super uncomfortable with that statement. If this guy could say rude things to the person onstage, what kind of shit would he say to the girls at the table beside him?

  I wish I’d had my Topless Tuesday crew to march onstage in their various shapes and sizes and give him a dose of reality, to show him what actual women look like. They aren’t just the waifish models in his mom’s L.L.Bean catalog that he steals to jerk off to in his bedroom. I’m sure Melissa would’ve promptly asked him to pull his balls out so we could judge the sag level of those bad boys.*

  That is why I think my club was important. No, we didn’t solve mysteries or get our own landline. But we did, for a magical moment in time, have women feeling a little more comfortable about their bodies, throwing caution (and Spanx) to the wind. If that arsehole had yelled “saggy tits” at Claire on week one, she would’ve shown up to week two wearing a turtleneck over a snowsuit. But not at week five. At week five, she would’ve thrown her cigar at him and shimmied across the stage while we all cheered behind her. Dare I say it? Topless Tuesday was the titz.

  Don’t get me wrong—I don’t think you need to be naked in front of your friends to gain more confidence. I’m just saying that pushing yourself outside your comfort zone a little only makes your comfort zone that much bigger. I am sure I just ripped off Oprah or some self-help guru with that last sentence, but fuck it. It’s true.

  And for all you folks still curious about Jacques, I never did find out how he knew about my club. But I did know how to get a solid grade on that two-hundred-word paper. Instead of the paper he wanted us to turn in on our favorite movie, I did him one better. Using the girls from my club, a black-construction-paper censor bar, and my club taking turns saying “Oui!” one hundred times, I created my own movie. It was titled Filles Déchaînées à Paris.

  Girls Gone Wild in Paris.

  I passed the class.

  Quickshots: Terrible Comments

  Here is my first Quickshot! What’s a Quickshot, you ask? Easy. For some of these
stories, there is so much more I want to cram in, but I don’t have the room (that’s what she said).

  So, rather than rob you readers of the exhilaration of my humiliation, I decided to include these countdowns throughout the book. No need to whip up simple syrup or buy some specialty endangered bald eagle egg liqueur; just pound a shot of your choice.

  This particular Quickshot is about Internet comments! I don’t think I’m breaking new ground here by saying that people can be HUGE DICKS on the Internet. And I’m not just talking about when you google-image the phrase “huge dicks.”

  I’m actually really lucky. For the most part the comments on my videos are super positive. And when someone does have the audacity to write something shitty, it is quickly thumbs-downed by so many people that it disappears. It’s like a personal army of positivity. Despite my clique, a few shitty comments do manage to eke by on every upload.

  Here are some examples of mean-spirited comments that have made me laugh. Let it be known that I’ve gotten some beyond-awful ones before, but I don’t want those dicks who are secretly fans to read this book while wearing their YDAD shirts and have the satisfaction of seeing their comments in it. Instead, here are three different types of people who like to troll.

  Please note that I left out their actual usernames so as to protect their identities. Please also note that more than one had a One Direction reference in their names. Them 1Ders are intense!

  The Rookie

  I bet ur a VIRGINA

  First of all, in the words of every passive-aggressive southern woman, bless her heart. I would like to think that this is simply a case of bad AutoCorrect. Like when your mom texts you what she’s cooking for dinner and it turns “meatballs” into “my balls.” But if it is an AutoCorrect fail, riddle me this—why is “ur” still spelled like that? Hmmmm?

  What we really have here is the case of the rude ten-year-old. She wants to say terrible things online. After all, that’s what all the cool kids are doing. She just hasn’t reached the point in her life where she knows how to be mean. She’s heard girls call each other skanks at school and always looks shocked even though she doesn’t know what it means.

  Like when I was in fourth grade and the song “Baby Got Back” (a.k.a. “I Like Big Butts”) was the jam of the summer. I have a very vivid memory of hanging out at the Yadkin County public pool and wearing my favorite peach-and-yellow French bikini because I knew my crush, Steel, was going to be there. Two things might’ve stood out to you in that sentence: The fact that I wore my cutest suit when I had the body of a cardboard cutout. And the fact that my crush’s name was Steel. I have no idea what ended up happening to that guy, but I’m gonna guess he ended up a porn star or a comic book hero.

  Anyway! A group of cool dudes were standing in a circle rapping about their love for big butts, and on the line “I get sprung,” Steel said, “I get spermed.” Everyone cracked up laughing. I had no idea why that was so funny. Not a clue. But you bet your ass I laughed. Probably too hard. Before anyone could catch on to my maniacal laugh of confusion, I excused myself to go get some more Airheads from the snack shop. Luckily, I got away with it. Unluckily, this was before the Internet, and I can never take back asking my mom what “spermed” meant.

  This is that same scenario but in written form. She obviously wants to call me a “virgin” but doesn’t know what it is or why it is offensive. Because if she did know what it was, I guarantee she would not be calling me that!

  Really, chickadee? The girl who in this video says the words “Queefer Sutherland” has never been physically intimate before?

  I guarantee ten minutes after typing this, our sweet commenter helped set the table for dinner, where her parents would ask her how her piano lesson went and her rascal of a younger brother would flick peas in her face.

  And furthermore, since when has being a virgin been an insult? Even when Tai called Cher a “virgin who can’t drive” in Clueless, the only part that seemed really mean was the “can’t drive” part. When you are sixteen and someone calls you a bad driver, she may as well spit in your face.

  Speaking of bad driving, when I was sixteen years old, I drove through a telephone pole. True story. I’d had my license for three weeks and had a cute little used green VW Jetta. One morning, I was waiting to pull out of my road when I noticed there was some gunk on my driver’s side window. It looked like someone had hawked a loogie on it. I rolled down the window to see if it would scrape off, but no luck. I pulled out of my road, manually rolling the window back up. I looked again and saw the loogie had just smeared everywhere. Fucking gross! As I was staring at the Jackson Pollock of snot and holding back dry heaves, I ran off the road and smashed into a telephone pole. I wasn’t even going that fast, but as soon as I hit and the airbags deployed, my knee-jerk reaction was to hit the gas. I broke that pole in half like “Macho Man” Randy Savage snaps a Slim Jim.* Pretty embarrassing. Pretty stupid. But, so help me God, you better not have told me I couldn’t drive or I would’ve cut you out of my life.

  I guess what I’m trying to say here is don’t call someone a bad driver. But also, young girls, don’t consider calling someone a virgin an insult. It’s not. Having your virginity is nothing to be embarrassed by. In fact, it’s more a bragging right than an embarrassment. It is way more embarrassing to put on a tough-guy act and call someone the misspelled name of a very respectable and beautiful American state.

  The Weirdo

  Lame! I clicked for the Viking bra tutorial! Unsubbing. #~>

  Where do I even begin with this one? Seriously. This person is pissed because she was searching for Viking Bra Tutorial. I can’t even be mad at her for unsubscribing. In fact, I want to slowly infiltrate this person’s life via the videos she likes and gradually become her best friend.

  I’ll probably have to pretend to be into opera and wear a hat with horns on it for a while, but I really think it will be worth it in the end.

  The Hypocrite

  Idiots with too much time.

  Oh, man. I love this comment so much. You might be thinking, But Mamrie! It’s not that mean, or But Mamrie, there are no grammatical errors! Look, when it comes to appreciating a ridiculous comment on YouTube, sometimes you gotta treat it like a chicken potpie. You gotta peel back a flaky layer or two to get to that real gooey goodness. I will admit that the potpie analogy is partially due to the fact that I’m watching Food Network as I type this. But it is true. Sometimes you’ve got to dig a little deeper to see where a person is coming from. And that is what I did with this gem of a user. I clicked on his avatar.

  This is something that people forget is possible on YouTube. As easily as you can click on my username and see what videos I’ve posted, I can do the same exact thing to a commenter. I can also see what videos you’ve uploaded, or liked, or commented on.

  This lil’ peach who took the time to tell me that I am an idiot and that I have too much time on my hands didn’t realize that (after drinking a few too many Rumple Minzes) I would click on that avatar of his.

  What I found really knocked me off my orthopedic slippers. Homeboy, let’s call him Reginald, had only one original video uploaded to his channel. Now, if I were to tell you that this one video was the most boring thing I have ever experienced, you probably wouldn’t believe me. But I swear on my collection of tiny hats, it’s the truth.

  Reginald’s only uploaded video was a montage of sunset pictures. Not a sweeping montage of time-lapse sunset footage. Not gorgeous sunsets over canyons, beaches, and other stunning landscapes with shots from a GoPro strapped to an eagle’s head. No, no. Reg’s video was a slideshow of scanned sunset photos he’d taken through a window with an old camera that still shows you the date in the corner.

  Of course, he broke out every standard iMovie transition (star wipe, dissolve, even that weird spinning cube thing) to sandwich between each blurry sunset. It was set to a classic ne
w age instrumental, to really get the viewer in the relaxation zone. But that’s not all! Halfway through the vid it kicks into a more rocking number and switches to (get this) waterfall pics, but not before Reg cuts to a title card reading, and I quote: “Did anybody sad water?”

  Guys. We all know good and well this was a painful and unfortunate typo. He clearly meant, “Did anybody say water?” but I think we can all admit the irony is heartbreaking. It was some supersad water. I felt so bad for Reginald. We used to live in a world where you could entice your friends and neighbors with a good cheese ball and a box of Franzia in exchange for them coming over and acting impressed with your boring-ass vacation slideshow. And you know, sunsets are the most boring vacay photos. Sunsets are the photography equivalent of people telling you what they dreamt.

  But now, sans slideshow party, this man had to teach himself how to edit and scan old photos to throw them onto the World Wide Web, shouting into the void and hoping someone would watch it.

  Well, guess what, mothafucka, I did watch. I am one of your sixteen views. And even though you called me an idiot who has too much time on her hands, I gave it a thumbs-up. Pay it forward, Reg.

  The Backpedaler

  NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTTTTT funny, you just copied graces editing completely

  In case you who have been living under a rock (or picked up this book because it was on clearance and some smart-ass put Chelsea Handler’s book cover on it), Grace Helbig is my cohort on YDAD. This is whom the man with the broken caps lock is referring to.

  Let me take it back a little. Grace and I met on our first sketch team at the Peoples Improv Theater, in NYC. Grace was on an improv house team and I was in a sketch-writing class. For those of you who aren’t total comedy nerds, improv is Whose Line Is It Anyway? and sketch is Saturday Night Live. The theater was putting together its first house sketch team and by some lucky streak, I was put on it.