How to be a Bad Best Friend (and Husband)

Ah, best friends.

Always around, never letting you keep anything bad down.

I’d just eaten rotten buffet shrimp. I swear.

Besties are always there to help you with bad hair.

Stick to your day job Scooby.

My mean gay bestie delights in bringing up just how far we go back.

Memories painful due to time passed.

But I draw the line when a best friend doesn’t know how to properly spell my birth name.

There’s NO MOTHERFUCKING H in my Megan.

So when it came time to paybacks going out when my gay bestie was in town, I made sure Scooby was primed and ready with wine…

Day drink #1.

And then beer….

Day drink #2.

Topped with flavored moonshine.

Day drink #3.

By the time we got to the bar, Scooby’s world was spinning faster than a tilt-a-whirl and I kindly offered to take the lightweight back home.

This is your body on wine, beer and moonshine.

But never fear! Gay best friend’s husband was near!

Hotter than a speeding bullet, Mr. Scooby zoomed in knowing just what to do.

Mr. Scooby directed his husband out the front door and into my parked vehicle, where he secured drunky into the front passenger side seat as he pretended to drive by moving his hands back and forth on the steering wheel, knowing Scooby would fall fast asleep.

No one will notice a passed out gay guy, right?

Right.

Turns out Mr. Scooby and I are such extremely caring, thoughtful, kind souls that not only did we partake in martinis galore…

Don’t worry. We locked Scooby in.

… we decided to take the party four blocks down the road to a dance floor.

Scooby who?

The club got so hot, I made Mr. Scooby take his shirt off and then I made an impromptu push up bra to compete with his pecks.

Even if you’re straight, you can’t hep but appreciate!

And when my feet hurt enough to take my heels off, we went to check on our sleeping beauty who had moved down the seat about four feet.

Safely strapped in.

Makes you think twice about misspelling my name doesn’t it?

Best. Friend. Ever.

CBXB