RETRO RELAPSE is a series of older articles from various places where I used to write before Talking Pulp.
*Written in 2014.
Big Game Willies. Man, I hate those guys. Being that I live in Southwest Florida, these big talking, big game motherfuckers are just about everywhere. One can easily spot them in one of the more prestigious bars buying mid-grade Scotch while trying to impress any of the attractive bartenders with big fancy stories of all their “business ventures” and “trips abroad”. Nine times out of ten, I would venture to guess that their business ventures have to do with borrowing more money than they can ever pay back and their trips abroad are to the east coast of Florida to go to some shitty Dolphins game. More often than not, they’re probably completely full of shit and are actually barely able to hold on to their job of selling life insurance in this tropical land of the dead.
The Big Game Willie is out for the pussy and that’s about it. Sure, like everyone, he seeks companionship but he certainly isn’t a top shelf player. He may convince a lady or two that he is some big baller doin’ big thangs but for the most part, his game is exposed as soon as he orders a Johnny Walker Red and immediately catches himself only to quickly say, “I… I mean Johnny Walker Black.” Bro, fuck you and fuck Johnny Walker Black.
While drinking the Scotch he can barely afford way too quickly to be a Scotch aficionado, he proceeds to try and lure the attention of the cute bartender or whichever unlucky female soul is closest within his vicinity. If he’s in a cigar smoking environment, he grabs a Macanudo because it is the only name he recognizes. He then attempts to woo the women in his corner of the bar about how he’s investing in some software bullshit or got the construction market cornered in some magical way. He talks at length about things he really doesn’t know but he is good at retaining information from other people more versed on the subject, which makes his talking out of his ass schtick seem plausible to someone not asking the right questions.
He’s a self-described world traveler and may even talk about some fancy European cuisine and art he knows nothing about, all while drinking what was almost Johnny Walker Red. He’s a fraud, a fake and one of the lowest forms of villainy because he’s not even good enough to be an amateur con man.
What does homeboy expect to accomplish? Sure, he may get that one night stand or two but ultimately, the girl will discover that he is a lying piece of shit. What then?
At what point do you stop being a fraudulent douchebag? I mean, there really is no long-term benefit to being a Big Game Willie. Yeah, you may get your dick wet once in a while because there are some dumb chicks on the market but you’d probably fare much better if you were a decent man and didn’t feel the need to paint yourself as someone you’re not. Besides that, I hope you’re at least smart enough to bang chicks at their house because your 400 square foot roach motel apartment isn’t going to work well for your big baller game. And please take the plastic spinners off of your 1996 Acura Integra because you’re not Latrell Sprewell. In fact, you probably don’t even know who that is.
At the end of the day, you’re an idiot, dude. What you don’t realize is that 95 percent of the world sees through you and are laughing at your expense. Girls, if you’ve been burned by a Big Game Willie, what the hell is wrong with you? You girls must be suffering from the Princess Syndrome.
I wish all the princesses and Big Game Willies would find an island somewhere and just fuck off.