Disclaimer: These “B True Hollywood Stories” are 100% true with vivid descriptions brought to you in 1080p courtesy of my memory (Maybe slight exaggerations, but its all rooted in truth) . You’re all welcome. Oh, and they all took place in the New England area, not Hollywood.
This story starts off on a regular night in the middle of summer 2012.
So I’m at chilling at home minding my own business when my phone rings. It’s Evandro, and he wants to go to the club tonight. I’m not much of a club guy, and neither is Evandro but for some reason I still say “Yea, fuck it, lets go”. Now we didn’t go to just any club, we went to Ultra in Providence aka “The Home of The Rachets”(I think they have that on the fliers). Anyway, I get up, stretch, and start looking at what I’m going to wear. Now mind you, me and Evandro were at the mall earlier that day and I spent every last dime on my debit card in H&M as if Bank of America would refund me the dough later (Trust me, I got some fly shit though).
I look into my closet at all my new fly shit and put an outfit together that was so dope if nobody I knew saw me that night I would have worn the shit again the next day. Woooo! You could not tell me I wouldn’t be the flyest broke dude in the club that night.
So Evandro comes to pick me up and we head over to the club. I don’t even remember how I got the money to get in there but somehow by the grace of sweet baby Jesus, $10 miraculously found its way into my pocket.
So me and Evandro are in the club, on opposite ends scoping out and seeing which one of these beautiful women with blue text bubbles we would approach first.
By the bar I see this girl that looks like she could be Rihanna’s cousin on her moms side. I walk up to this girl and start some regular conversation, you know, figuring out the basics. Once I saw out the corner of my eye she pulled out an iPhone with the brightness all the way up I swore I was in love.
After some small talk she tells me we should get some drinks. Now I live by a strict moral code to not buy no chicks in the club drinks, but c’mon man, this is Rihanna’s cousin we talking about! So I pull out my debit card slam it on the bar and demand the bartender go get us two henny and cokes (I’m a man who loves his henny). The bartender puts down the drinks and goes to swipe my card. Right before I decide to take my first sip and continue my conversation with french vanilla iced coffee colored woman, the bartender taps my shoulder and says “Sorry but your card isn’t working”.
I started sweating, I didn’t know what to do. So I did what any logical man in my position would do and returned those fucking drinks like I had the receipt. I immediately took my card back and vanished into the dance floor with my face buried in my phone never to see this waffle colored woman ever again.