Comic-Con Debauchery: Why I Left The Playboy Party For A 30-Minute Cab Ride Outside Of San Diego
It’s every man’s dream to attend a Playboy party at some point in their lives, a mandatory addition to the bucket list. I had heard of friends going to Playboy parties before, and a riotous jealousy would swarm my soul. What made them so much better than me? Why couldn’t I get into a Playboy party?
Well, Friday night at Comic-Con I would finally get my chance. The Camp Playboy party by all accounts was one of the biggest and best parties in downtown San Diego, and I had the means to get in. So what did I do? Take pictures of dozens of scantily clad bombshells? Run around in a fit of joy and proclaim to the heavens I am forever in your debt? Not even close. What occurred instead was perhaps one of the most disappointing moments as a man in my entire life. I left the Playboy party and ended up 30 minutes outside of San Diego. Can you say, EPIC FAIL?
Let’s just start off by saying I do not take the entire blame for my actions. First, I would like to blame the Comic-Con convention itself for existing. Yeah. Second, I blame all of the free alcohol that was in constant circulation. I almost just kicked myself for blaming one of the greatest combinations of words to ever partner, free + alcohol, but I’m desperate for leniency. Third, I would like to blame the city of San Diego itself, allowing that little voice to enter my head and tell me, “Use me, Derek. I want you to.”
So here’s my story. But first, I would like to list my entire consumption of alcohol leading up to my shenanigans:
1 22 oz. Arrogant Bastard
1 22 oz. Dos Equis
4 12 oz. Budweisers
1 “True Blood” Tequila Sunrise (I must say it had quite the bite)
1 Tall Pabst Blue Ribbon
1 22 oz. Arrogant Bastard (This was my demise)
1 12 oz. Arrogant Bastard
So, all of this before the Camp Playboy party. You know that rush of excitement you think would occur as you enter a party like this? That was replaced by a numbing sense of inebriation. The KROQ crew strolled in, grabbed a couple of free drinks (I may have passed these up though, it’s all a bit patchy from here), and started taking group photos with as many women as we could find. A task that’s beautifully easy at a Playboy party. From here is where my fetish for a story rather than staying on the safe side of things kicked in. In this case, story could be a euphemism for vice. I told Lightning and the crew I was going for a lap to appreciate the view…they wouldn’t see me for another six hours.
In a complete drunken stupor, I walked around the party before collapsing on the artificial lawn in the middle of Camp Playboy. The fact that I was with work friends who were probably curious of my whereabouts became an afterthought as soon as it surfaced. I made friends with some random girl, we talked about how much I loved The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and how jealous I was about my restricted access to the TMNT party earlier in the day. Only now do I realize what an arrogant bastard I had truly become.
Then I left Camp Playboy. What hurts even more is that I left well before the party was over. I walked straight into [pullquote quote="You really can't be in here. You're not well."]another club without speaking a word to any of the bouncers. Suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder, I turned facing a man who was clearly concerned with what he was looking at, “You really can’t be in here. You’re not well,” I of course retorted, offended even though it was quite obvious the man was right. I really shouldn’t have been anywhere outside of my hotel room at this point. But did that stop me? No. I walked, then walked some more, until I found myself in complete isolation. Over 150,000 people were here from all corners of the world, and I literally stood on a corner in downtown San Diego without a single human being in sight. If anyone was looking for an ass kicking, I was optimum bait.