Yellow cup or: token post about Stewart

Holding a red plastic cup meant you were taken. A yellow cup meant you weren't sure. Green cups meant you were single.

Gaylord called it a "stoplight party".

After he explained the rules to me and Stewart as we walked in, 'Lord said, "I would strongly recommend the yellow cups."

"Why's that?" I asked.

And he answered, "Because bitches like a challenge!"

It reminded me of my freshman year of college, back when no one knew anything about women. There was this one Friday night during that first year where a smirking Dave walked up to a bunch of us and revealed that the secret to getting laid was remembering to bring a Sharpie marker to parties. This was the year before cell phones exploded in popularity, when guys still jotted girls' numbers onto their hands, only to watch in horror during the trek home that their sweat had smeared the numbers away.

Unless of course, you were Dave with a handy dandy Sharpie marker. When Dave shared that tip, I probably laughed the hardest of us all. Tactical planning for women? I was too good for that sort of thing.

But not last Saturday night. That's when I decided, oh what the heck, and heeded the silly advice by picking up a yellow cup. Stewart, skeptical, he helped himself to a green one.

We went up to the rooftop, the actual scene of the party, and within minutes I saw a tall and leggy brunette about 15 feet away. She was looking directly at me. Most people, when someone's making eye contact with them they will look away out of either courtesy or shyness. Me, I'm neither courteous nor shy.

After about 20 seconds of looking at each other, this girl broke into a beautiful, wide smile. And I thought to myself, Wow, this yellow cup shit really works! Gaylord's brilliant! I responded by doing the first thing that came to my mind, which, as always is the case when I do the first thing that comes to mind, was the dorkiest thing imaginable: I gave her a thumbs up.

Obviously, she looked away very quickly and pretended to rejoin the conversation that her friends nearby were having.

Beside me, Stewart with his green cup was faring slightly better. There was this girl he knew via MySpace who showed up to the party just to meet him, and she could only be descibed with one word: buxom. Or seven words, if you go with what Stewart exclaimed earlier that night after he'd sent me a link to her MySpace page: "That girl's rack is out of control!"

I'll tell you why I think highly of Stewart. Most conversations that I have with people -- even some of my friends -- always end up becoming either a competitive one, or one where the questions they ask are only excuses for them to talk about themselves. Not with Stewart. He's a back-slapping guy's guy that always makes you look and feel your best in front of people, and he genuinely cares about what you have to say. Plus, going out with him is fun because I don't have to do any work. I can't tell you how many times I've been at a bar with a group of silent buddies -- forcing me to become everyone's entertainer -- but with Stewart, he's so adept at producing one-liners that I can just kick back and enjoy being Paul Schafer to his David Letterman.

In short, I'm in love with Stewart and want to bear his children.

For a minute there, so did Buxom Chick and the friend that she brought along. Stewart had them laughing and entertained so much that during one conversation when he explained that "speaking Greek" means taking it up the ass in Craigslistspeak, neither of them wondered what the hell he was doing in the Casual Encounters section in the first place.

At the end of the night, however, after Buxom Chick and her friend were long gone, after Stewart texted a message to Buxom Chick saying that she was the most beautiful one there, and she didn't text back, after I asked someone what the rules of beer pong were and was severely made fun of, after I tried to pee into Gaylord's bath tub, provoking Stewart to say, "I can't bring that kid anywhere!", after Stewart tried flirting with some girl in the kitchen by begging her to feed him a piece of a cookie into his gaping mouth, after all of that, it turns out that neither of us really benefited from the color of our cups, yellow, green, or otherwise.

And as we took a cab home together, Stewart out of nowhere stumbled into a major hiccup attack, the biggest and most comical hiccup attack that I've ever witnessed. He looked like a complete retard. "Pretty good, hiccup, night, hiccup," he hiccupped. "It's a, hiccup, good thing we didn't go, hiccup, home with anyone tonight. Hiccup. Because this, hiccup, would be really embarrassing, hiccup."

"If we'd used red cups, they very well could be going home with us tonight," I joked.

And Stewart hiccupped, "Yeah, hiccup, maybe next time. Hiccup. Dude, hiccup. We should do this more often, hiccup. Go out, hiccup, more, together. Hiccup. Damn it, I can't stop! Hiccup. Oh hey dude, hiccup. Are you going to, hiccup, blog about me? Hiccup. You better. Hiccup. You're always blogging, hiccup, hiccup, about Dave. Hiccup. Dave, Dave, Dave. Dave. Hiccup. Blog about me for once. Hiccup."