Fun With Text Messaging Chapter 445: "At the Titty Bar"

I have an update tomorrow, too! Holla! And it's about partying! Holla!

But anyway, on Friday, I was hanging out in the yuppie hell known as The Yard House. Argh. Shoot me now. Everybody had on khakis and wanted to get laid. K-Roc and I wanted to watch the Celtics and Pistons and drink some beer after a failed attempt to see Sex and the City. It was so freakin' yuppified in there that the guy behind us sniffed his beer and actually said, "That smells DELISH!" Kill me now.

Anyway, the Celtics eliminated the Detroit Pistons from the NBA playoffs, if you care about the NBA, which puts you in the minority.

I have this friend who is actually named Johnny Detroit, cause he's, you know, from Detroit. He's pretty much straight white gangster. In the way that some gangsters are wired up but live in a nice suburban house. YES. I mean EXACTLY like Tony Soprano. EXACTLY. But hot. JD is hot.

So I send the following text to Johnny Detroit:
"Fuck the Pistons. Love, Jocelyn & Kari"

To which he responds:
"I agree. I bet Boston. At titty bar."

Yep. That's the text.

Where to start? Why did JD feel that I may need to know he was at the "titty bar?" Was it because he wanted to put the final male stamp on the fact that he'd ALREADY BET HIS SHIT STRAIGHT BECAUSE HE KNOWS SPORTS? Or was it because he had forgotten that I was female and not in Detroit and that perhaps I should come and join him at the "titty bar?" Or was it because he feared that I was confused and had thought for even a minute that at midnight on a Friday JD would be anywhere OTHER than the "titty bar" (I had not thought that). Or was he just drunk?

Either way, it makes me want to text him more, just to keep track of how often he's:
In titty bar