Now it’s obvious that Halloween is Obama’s favorite holiday, next to Kwanzaa. Handing out free candy to poor kids while encouraging them to lie about their identity is socialism at it’s finest. I would be anti-Halloween if it weren’t for the fact that it’s the only holiday that allows girls to slut it up without feeling guilty about themselves, while still being respected by their peers. The sorostitutes who normally try to maintain a clean image, by grinding on each other on the Felson’s dance floor, can finally let loose by dressing up as “Slutty (Insert profession)”. It’s perfectly normal to see slutty nurses, slutty secretaries, slutty angels, slutty devils, and even slutty sluts on Halloween. It’s also the easiest night of the year to slay some slutty bumble bee or slutty swine flu and role play while doing it. Halloween has allowed me to take down a slutty Hannah Montana, a slutty Paris Hilton, and a slutty Batgirl without feeling weird about it the next day.

Last Saturday, we began the night drinking at my house before going straight to Felson’s. In a failed attempt at humor, Forrest tried to go as me for Halloween. He said he was dressing up as “arrogance” by wearing black Kanye West shutter sunglasses and a WNF IV t-shirt, but I knew he really just wanted to be me (I can’t blame him). Of course this worked for him because he eventually took down some slutty Cleopatra, woke up the next morning and didn’t know how she got there or who she was. Knowing I’d never get laid if I pretended to be Forrest, I decided to go as Kanye West. Sporting a down vest and white Kanye shutter shades, we entered the bar and saw that everyone had put a lot of thought into their costumes, except for Forrest. I took my normal lap, passing terrorists, a few versions of swine-flu, some dude from Twilight, the old man who owned Jurassic Park, and a pedophile who actually pretended to be a bartender as well.

Staying in character, I spent most of the night interrupting people and telling them someone else had a better costume than they did. “Yo, Swine-flu. I’m really happy for you. I’MA LET YOU FINISH…….BUT THAT SWINE FLU OVER THERE, WITH THE “BACON AIDS” SIGN ON THE BACK, IS THE BEST SWINE FLU OF ALL TIME! ONE OF THE BEST SWINE FLUS OF ALL TIME!” I was about to interrupt a Magnum P.I. when a hammered Joe Montana pointing a fake gun at people walked through with a group of sluts following in his wake. I decided it was best to just let that one slide, I mean, he is a living legend.

At some point a friend of mine called me over to meet two slutty something’s (I was too drunk to figure out what their costumes were at this point). He said “Hey, William, these girls are fans of the blog, they wanted to meet you.” I started talking to them, and while I’m normally attracted to brunettes, or anything that moves, my attention turned to the blonde. While we were talking, this huge piece of shit came up and tried to flirt with me. She’s horrible and I bang her when I’m bored. I hate her as a person and if she ruined this potential hook up for me I had already decided that murder was not out of the picture. So I pulled a King Kong and grabbed the blondes’ waist, claiming her as my own. This, combined with some other distractions provided by a dude from Twilight and one of the seventeen dudes dressed up as Alan from “The Hangover” seemed to work at the time.

I was on my normal night’s pace, right up until 2:00am. We approached the bar and asked for my parents’ credit card when something strange happened. The bartender told me the bar would be open for another hour, due to the time change.
“Time change? Did ITB get a new time zone? I’ve been lobbying for this for years. If we move our clocks forward enough we’ll be able to make a shit ton of money by investing in the stock market because we’ll be in the future. That’s why everyone’s so rich in Europe,” I said.
The bartender just paused and stared. He obviously didn’t understand the concept of time travel.

A lot of people left the bar as the fake 2:00am rolled around. I began to take full advantage of this extra hour we were given due to the “time change”. I bought the girl a drink and kept trying to get her to take shots, she declined. Mental note; figure out how to roofie something other than a shot. Considering how blackout I was, combined with the fact that I was still looking through sunglasses that essentially made me blind, I realized I needed some friend approval before I took this girl home. I saw two of my friends across the bar, got their attention, then had to make up a reason for this girl to turn around so they could see her. With the blonde’s back turned to these guys, I proceeded to say, “Oh great, I hope those guys don’t come over here, they are huge fans. Being so famous is so tiring sometimes. I totally understand why Lindsay Lohan needs rehab.” She turned around, just in time to see them all giggling like school girls. As she turned back towards me I looked back to see their signs of approval. Surely impressed by my immense popularity, we continued talking, about what, I have no clue.

My vision began to blur even more after taking another shot and I couldn’t keep the glasses on any longer. Standing there in khaki pants, a polo shirt, and a down vest, it was only minutes before a slutty Harry Potter stopped and said, “Oh, you’re Marty McFly, that’s a great costume! Because of the time change right?”
Why the fuck did everyone else but me understand this time travel shit? Slurring my words, I replied, “No. I’ma let you finish, but that Harry Potter over there, is the best….wait….why the fuck are you a girl Harry Potter?”
Her drunken friend, the seventeenth Alan from “The Hangover” I had seen that night, interrupted, “1.21 jigawatts! Great Scott, Marty.”
I assumed the “jigawatts” he spoke of was some new kind of drug unit I didn’t know about. Maybe that’s what 8 balls are like in the future, I thought.
“I’ma let you finish, but those other 16 Alan’s from “The Hangover”’ are the best Alan’s from “The Hangover” of all time. But if you wanna go to late night and do some jigawatts, I’m down.”
The blonde interjected and made me realize she wasn’t up for jigawatts. I took a few shots with slutty Harry Potter and Alan and we left the bar, splitting a cab with a chicken.

I need to preface the remainder of the night with the following. Below are the standard precursors to post-bar Halloween hook-ups. As you can see, 99% of my Halloween hook-ups occur after three different scenarios. However, this night, created the 1% of types of Halloween hook-ups I’ve never had before.

We went to my room and as things progressed she says, “I’m not going to sleep with you”. Unacceptable, I hadn’t heard those words since I was 12 years old. Was this because of the time change? I proceeded to blow her out in a rant that made Christian Bale look like Mr. Rogers. Her response was priceless.
“Well I didn’t want to sleep with you because I really like you,” she said.
“Well, that was a mistake. Is this because of the time change?” I asked.
This wasn’t a third grade sleepover and I wasn’t about to listen to the diatribe she was about to embark on, so I grabbed my monogrammed pillow and stormed upstairs to the AFS (a refinished attic with twin beds, dubbed the “Anne Frank Suite” for obvious reasons). Before leaving, I stopped and said, “You’ll now be known as 1%, since this has never happened to me before. I’m gonna let it slide because this whole night has been confusing as shit.”

After the girl had snuck out the next morning, she sent a text saying she couldn’t find her $200 pair of jeans. A brief flash in my mind of me throwing her jeans out in the front yard came and went. I shook it off, there’s no way I took someone’s clothes and threw them in the yard. Who does that? So I texted her and said, “sorry for partying, don’t have them. don’t ever come over to my house again”. Later that day, while walking back in the house from brunch I saw a pile of something in the front yard. Confused, I went to examine it. There they were, the $200 jeans. Mary Caldwell and Forrest were with me, so I told Mary Caldwell she could have them. I still don’t remember throwing them in the front yard, so I’m assuming this had to do with the time change. Hopefully, Halloween never falls on this night again.

Note: Alan from “The Hangover”, if you’re still trying to do some jigawatts this weekend, send me an e-mail. I want in on this action.

As you all know, my newest, and only, goal in life is to become a famous socialite. I’ve recently been putting in a lot of effort, which is highly unlike me, to accomplish this goal as soon as possible. For starters, I’ve got this blog (and a book deal in the works) as well as the fact that I hang out with reality television stars on a pretty regular basis (once). I’ve also begun to attend other bars, before ending up at Felson’s of course, in an attempt to draw more attention to myself and my socialite lifestyle.

I started out my night with the intention of writing about Obama’s recent visit to Broughton and how awesome my family’s healthcare is. Earlier this week I had planned on stirring up some controversy about Obama’s visit, but I didn’t want my parents’ lawyers to have to deal with getting me out of trouble with the Secret Service (again). For now, I’ll just say that it was about time Obama came and explained his new healthcare “plan” to the people who deserved an explanation the most, wealthy ITBers who already have great healthcare. Obama mixed two things I love, Broughton and vehemently arguing about stuff that I don’t know anything about. I’ll go into this more when I lay out my own healthcare plan.

My quiet night in came to an abrupt end when a friend from out of town said he was out drinking. Obviously, I dropped what I was doing, which at the time was sitting on the couch watching Entourage reruns on Demand, and went down to some place on Gelwood South called Havanna’s. I figured it would be good to show the public that my socialite status allows me to get blackout any night of the week. Thankfully, there weren’t any gel heads at the bar. However, the lack of gel heads wasn’t necessarily an indication that this bar was an acceptable place to go, since there actually weren’t any other people in the bar…..at all. I was pretty livid that no one was going to see how awesome I was at playing darts and taking shots on a random week night. Just when I thought things weren’t going my way, I got a sign that all my hard work is paying off.

First, I received an e-mail on my iPhone notifying me that Hadley, of the show Southern Belles, decided to accept my Facebook friend request. I thought it was odd that it took her so long (about a month) to do so. I can understand playing it cool for a little while on Facebook, because everyone knows that you need to wait at least 24 hours before accepting or responding to any friend requests, messages, or wall posts in order to remain cool and tough. But not responding for over a month made me begin to question my socialite status. Thinking she might need her memory refreshed, I sent her the following message:

Sorry for partying
Between Hadley Hartz and You
July 29 at 10:17pm
Hadley,

Thought you should check out this recap of what happened when I went out in Louisville http://www.itbinsider.com/?p=516. We met at some bar, I can’t remember the name, but I was the guy buying jäger bombs at 3:45am. I’m pretty sure you wanted to have late night at our hotel, but my friends and I were too drunk to even find our way back there. Sorry for partyin’.

William Needham Finley IV

A few minutes later, I got an e-mail from my IT guy telling me that Hadley had commented on the Southern Belles post. He verified that the IP address was from Louisville, Kentucky and said that he was positive she was the one who had left the following comment:

37. Hey… thanks for sending me this link, and for the bombs!

HH

Hadley, July 31, 2009

That made it official. I’m now actual friends with a realty television star. Actual friends, not just bar friends (which are friends you never hang out with outside of the bar, yet you both act like you’ve known each other for decades just because you buy each other shots to avoid the awkward pause that arises after you each say “What’s up? How’s it goin?”). It’s all coming together.

“Where will this lead?” you ask. If all goes well, I should develop (even more of) a drug problem as I spend more and more time with these other famous socialites. They’ll probably come visit Felson’s pretty soon, since I told Hadley all about it when we were hanging out in Louisville. I may even consider breaking my “don’t date until you’re 28” rule, since a lot of celebrities get attention because of who they’re dating. I know what you’re thinking, “What the hell William? She’s not ITB?! If you don’t marry from a select group of families, your kids won’t be able to have full names that are just a mix of Raleigh landmarks or institutions!”. I’m not retarded, I know that I’m supposed to marry into a select group of families, ensuring that our children would be able to add another prestigious name to the family tree.

But if you think about it, Louisville does have it’s similarities to Raleigh, both good and bad. 4th Street, their version of Gelwood South, is full of gel heads and girls with tramp stamps who have to deal with the hassle of making a decision on which bar to go to out of the countless options available to them. Yet Louisville is home to the Kentucky Derby, a place where the wealthy elite overdress in order to make ridiculous fashion statements while also betting on horses and losing tons of money within minutes, which is a lot like Felson’s. They’ve got midgets in pastel colored shirts riding big dumb animals, while we’ve got sorostitutes who end up ridin’ dirty on the dance floor after some jager bombs and a few slaps on the ass. Even their drinks are what some people (not me) would consider expensive. You could run up quite a tab ordering $1,000 mint juleps that are chilled with ice from the Arctic Circle (wherever that is).

Don’t worry, as long as I’m associating with socialites that have at least some class, I think I should be alright. I realize I’m going to have to break a few of my personal rules and sacrifice some of my “values” in order to become famous. That’s just the price I’ll have to pay during my rise to the top.