A night out is a precious time, and as you get older, they seem to get fewer and farther between. Key members of your #squad seem to always have commitments and it’s never really the case anymore that you get your whole crew assembled for an old school night of going hard. But, like a Dave Chappelle public appearance, these types of nights aren’t quite extinct yet. Sometimes, though, when you think the stars have aligned and it’s going to be a throwback night, some asshole has to chime in and bring the whole thing crumbling down like giant bar Jenga.
These are the texts that ruin a night out.
Heads up, there’s a long line.
I don’t do lines unless they’re inside a Trader Joe’s. Lines are the steerage on the Titanic of the bar scene. Life is too short to wait in line at the bar.
Just a reminder – I’m not drinking this weekend. On one of those juice cleanses.
At least he’s not on a Jews cleanse. (I’m a Jew, I can say that… I think.)
Sweatpants. Wine. ‘Friends’ on Netflix. Sorry, buddy.
We’re going to one of those ice bars. Don’t worry, though, they give you a coat.
My schmeckle doesn’t need the help with shrinkage, and if you think I’m going to try and pull off a ‘fit with some generic off-the-rack winter coat abomination that the bar is giving me, you’re crazier than I thought.
If you have trouble finding the place it’s because they use an unmarked hidden door.
Another place trying to give off that speakeasy vibe. If I have to drink overpriced bourbon out of another fucking mason jar served up by tatted Peaky Blinders bros in denim overalls, it might be another Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in the group text. Son of a BANG! Son of a BOOM!
Guys… she’s pregnant.
Fuck. I guess that means drinks are on me tonight.
Bar only takes cash.
What is this, 1879? Seriously, who carries cash anymore! If the bar is too cheap to buy a few credit card scanners, I might be too cheap to buy those extra drinks. You think the bartender will just let me Venmo him? Cash only bars need to get off their high horse.
Where the fuck are you, asshole… you were supposed to take me out for our six week anniversary remember?
New phone, who dis.
Text from Bank of America: Funds Insufficient
If I rub some dirt on my face, do you think I could sit on the street outside the bar for an hour and beg for beer money? You know, thinking about it, I’m pretty confident I’d be a pretty good vagabond.
Sorry bud can’t make it. Stayin’ in with the girly
I would make a noise of a cracking whip, butttttt I’m actually just really jealous and that sounds amazing. .
Also read Texts That Ruin Brunch.
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