Congratulations Persian Douchebag!

Polish up your golden chains and put on that t-shirt that doesn’t actually fit you that Jersey Shore made you think was a good idea, because tonight you’re a Persian douchebag. You’re going out on the town and you’re going to dress that way even though you, like every other person alive today, should know better.

You’re going to go to “da club,” which is what you call your friend Greg’s parent’s basement in their house in the Bronx. You’re going to get way too drunk and you’re going to end up sucking Greg’s dick in a bathroom while a bunch of girls peek through an open door and giggle uncontrollably.

You’re going to wake up the next morning in Greg’s arms, dazed and confused and feeling strangely fulfilled at first. This feeling will rapidly translate into a sort of disgust you’ve always reserved for gay dudes you see on the train – the sort of creeping disgust that always comes from trying to look at something you simply cannot bear to see, a truth you cannot bear to face.

As you leave Greg’s parent’s house, stepping over unconscious men and women alike, you’ll feel dizzy. Finding your footing will be a chore. And as you reach the door you’ll want, desperately, to look back and see if Greg is watching you, to see if he’s looking at you as you go. You’ll want to see if he’s turned over after waking up a little. You’ll want to see if he acknowledges just what has passed between the two of you.

But you won’t turn to look. You’ll step outside, put on a pair of oversized sunglasses, and use your i-phone to find the nearest subway stop that can get you back to Manhattan, where you can hold off on taking a shower as long as possible while you and your roommates lie about hooking up with various women last night.

Congratulations Persian Douchebag!