I was once so drunk I took home a man wearing crocs and soon after learned he had whiskey dick… and that is no coincidence.

When I first moved to town, I pretty much went to the same bar every Thursday night. That is, until I had on three separate nights shamelessly made out with random men at said bar, at which point I cut myself off (three strikes, you’re out). The last of my mortifying make out sessions was indeed the worst. For there I was, in public, making out with someone who was wearing Crocs. No, I’m not kidding. Crocs. In public.

Now I try not to be a hateful person —although I can be quite judgmental and cynical — but almost nothing on this earth disgusts me more than Crocs. I'm sure you’ve seen these squeaky, smelly, vibrantly colored, plastic clogs worn by flocks of families and other people too lazy to accessorize or lace an actual fucking shoe. Everywhere I go: airports, the grocery store, the book store, the most snooty of malls, everyone and their Mom's uncle's mistress's neighbor wears these fucking things. I bet in history books in France people in the U.S. are illustrated with holey orange, green and pink feet. It's just sad… at best.

I, dear friends, am the archetype for the anti-Croc. Take a good look people, I never have and never will own a pair of plastic clogs. I may even go so far as to say if YOU own a pair of Croc's, this is where our friendship ends. They are cheap, tacky, and retarded. They should be outlawed, illegalized, burned in a large, polluting pile in the front lawn of the state capital.

However, give me three Jager shots, two PBRs, and one cute guy and watch these values fly out the window.

My friends claim they pointed out the Crocs before we left the bar, and I must admit I don’t doubt these assertions. However, once you’re drunk enough to make out in public amid friends and strangers, clearly you aren’t too concerned with your reputation at that distinct moment in time. Plus, dick trumps fashion disaster in the walk of shame game.

Without getting into the ever-so-graphic descriptions of my failed attempts to create something out of his dysfunctional erector set, I’ll just say that in the battle of Whiskey vs. The Croc-Clad Stranger, Whiskey won and both the Stranger and yours truly lost.

Indeed, all of my efforts were in vain and when he ran to the bathroom — most likely to try and slap it around a bit — I ran downstairs to tell the girls what was happening upstairs, a statement that he heard and no doubt hindered his dick hardening efforts. He came back in the room, called me out for having called him out, and said he thought he ought to leave.

While I agreed, I was so frustrated that, as he walked out of my house at 4am, I followed him, holding both thumbs down and shouting “Booooooooooo!” down the street (as if the encounter hasn’t been embarrassing enough for him). To be honest, I blamed myself: I had prioritized a hook up before my beliefs and I got exactly what I deserved. But on that night I learned a lesson: While Whiskey Dick is a sad occurrence, Croc Cock is much worse.