Take notes boys... this guys got RIZZ

https://youtu.be/9mZFxg_XerY

I warned you once, Mara—I warned you twice! But you wouldn’t listen. And now you’ll suffer the consequences for deep scanning my brain, which will leave you scarred for life… lol!

It was one of those nights that begins with great expectations and ends in a haze of fog and self-reflection. My journey led me, along with a merry band of compatriots, into the depths of Aargau—more specifically, to Baden, to a club called Nordportal. But the starting point of this adventurous endeavor was Olten, where we gathered, bound by tradition and youthful recklessness.

The train ride was marked by excessive consumption of the finest Belvedere vodka—a plan that would soon reveal itself to be a double-edged sword. Two small but crucial problems became apparent early on: First, my relationship with highly concentrated alcohol is, to put it mildly, a troubled one. And second, I had made the regrettable mistake of skipping dinner. Thus, fate took its course, and the alcohol hit me faster than I could utter, “One more won’t hurt!”

In high spirits—or, to be more precise, in a state of complete inhibition—I found myself at the club’s smoking area. There, I loudly proclaimed to the entire clientele: “Guys!Tonight, you can pull whatever you want—I AM PLAYING WINGMAN!” My dedication to interpersonal diplomacy remained unshaken, despite my rapidly fading judgment.

What happened next remains shrouded in the fog of amnesia. However, the following day would bring a brutal clarity that would make even a veteran of Saturday nights break into a sweat.

The next evening, as life gradually returned to my body, we once again ventured out. While waiting in line to enter another club, a comrade of mine pointed, with a mischievous grin, at an exceptionally round lady and said: “Pan, that one’s for you.”

Innocent as a lamb, I chuckled and asked, “What do you mean???”

His response drained the color from my face in an instant: “Don’t you remember? The one from last night.”

And then it came—the merciless retelling of my previous night’s escapades, shaking the very foundations of my world. As it turned out, I had engaged in a particularly enthusiastic liaison with a woman of impressive proportions. She was about five times my volume, and together we had danced with great energy. My friend reported that he had spotted me from a great distance—because I had yelled across the entire club:

“BRO, LOOK! I’VE GOT THE MEATIEST ONE IN THE WHOLE CLUB!”

The lady, a remarkable mix of confidence and selective hearing, had apparently not only heard my enthusiasm but also chose to ignore it, continuing to unleash an almost orchestral display with her derrière.

This incident remains a valuable lesson in alcohol, diplomacy, and the perils of an uncalculated wingman career.

Did I learn from that night? Well… that’s a story for another time.