In Vegas I made the mistake of telling my "friends" I had an "accident." The girl giving me a lap dance was grinding too hard and I blew my load. Within minutes the nicknames started: Sticky Pants, Pocket Paste, et cetera. I took my medicine for three days in Vegas and thought that would be the end of it. Then before I walked in the door at home my brother was calling me Sticky Pants. Now my boss and coworkers are calling me SP.
The problem I have is that one of my so-called friends is out to ruin me. He had Sticky Pants business cards printed up with my name on them and is passing them out. I'm getting married next month. What are the odds the wife-to-be will learn about SP before I die? Do I tell her the truth now? Or should I kill ALL of my so-called friends? The pricks think it's funny that they are going to ruin my life.
Sticky Pants
First, it's too bad your friends aren't living up to the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority's new slogan: "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas."
Second, you're a dumbass, SP. Your first dumbass move was telling your friends you blew a load. If you're old enough to get into a strip club and straight enough to blow your load during a lap dance, you should've known better. Of course they're razzing you--that's what straight men do. It's how you people display affection and/or hostility. Still, you've learned a valuable lesson: In the future, SP, what happens in your pants in Vegas, stays in your pants in Vegas.
Your second dumbass move was failing to laugh off the nicknames. You say you "took your medicine," but how well did you take it? Ask any seventh grader: If a cruel nickname visibly upsets the person being stuck with it, people redouble their efforts to make it stick. You were bothered, they could tell, and the end result is that SP may be your nickname forever.
What to do about the wife-to-be? Confess all. She's going to hear about it sooner or later--and keeping SP a secret only hands a very powerful weapon to the asshole who's trying to ruin your life. As for the asshole himself, well, the less bothered you seem by SP--yes, even the business cards--the sooner he'll start tormenting someone else.
Finally, I called the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Authority on your behalf. Rob Powers, vice president of public relations, seemed shocked--shocked!--to find that stripping is going on in Las Vegas. When I asked if he would call your asshole friend and tell him to knock it off--to leave your sticky pants in Vegas, per his organization's slogan--Rob told me he had to go. "My boss is on the other line," Rob said. "And I really wouldn't comment on that regardless."
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