Sparta.

Jack: I'm more or less that sidekick in the movie who fights off the bad guys long enough for the hero to storm the castle and then dies in a blaze of glory.
So@24: It feels good to be alive again. Jack: I'm going to ask that you take my cellphone when we get there.
So@24: Done.
Jack: Ahhhhh! -pounds chest- Okay, whew. Gotta calm down a little bit.
So@24: Haha! Why are YOU? I should be the one freaking out here.
Jack: Sure you should, but unlike you, my job is to talk to 8 people, girl people, I've never before without seeming awkward in such a way that casts you in positive light. It's like 300.
So@24: With great power comes great responsibility.
Jack: And arrows.
So@24: Well, yes. And arrows.

* * *

The term "wingman" comes with so many negative connotations. I'll even admit that the first thing that comes into my head is "douchebag". You think of popped collar guys scheming with his buddies, sitting down with a WWII-esque map trying to figure out what the best strategy is to get laid.

But there are instances when a friend takes a bullet for you. Not in the sense that he's going to sleep with the ugly friend a la' a "grenade jump" to help out a buddy (apparently this really happens, kind of sick, if you ask me). But in that he's going to put himself in a "not-so-ideal" situation without thinking twice about it.

This is what Jack did for me in Santa Barbara when I was to meet Bree for the first time.

Allow me to explain the difference between the socially accepted term of "wingman" and what a true friend is.

* * *

Let me bring you back to that evening.

I was asking my friend Jack to drive with me to Santa Barbara to meet up with a girl who I essentially met via the internet and her friends. This would be my first encounter.

I was asking a lot of Jack and he agreed to accompany me without hesitation. That's loyalty, my friends.

But let's fast forward to the latter part of the evening.

Jack had faked a phone call on his cell (it was nearing 3:00am at this point, perhaps Bree and I were both too drunk to call him out on this) and went back out into the shit weather alone.

Jack and I had never been to Santa Barbara before. Our knowledge of the surrounding area was subpar at best. Needless to say, Jack had a hellva time navigating his walking route from Bree's friend's house back to the dingy hotel. A Magellan, he is not.

He was without an umbrella and it was pouring sheets. And he was MC Hammered.

From what we've recollected of his journey, he stopped by a local 7-11 and picked up a microwavable DiGiorno's pizza. He continued his sprint to the hotel, but stopped at another one on the way.

He climbed a fence and stripped down to his jeans. Jack knew that he needed a quick remedy for his extreme drunkenness. The most logical answer at that time was to dive into the pool for a night (very early morning) swim. Jack was already drenched at this point and remembered that I had warned him of the reputation Santa Barbara police have for having low tolerance for this type of boozey shennanigans.

Jack bundled up his sopping wet clothes, tucked his frozen pizza under his arms and continued his jaunt back to the hotel.

Jack soon realized that the hotel I had booked for the evening did not come with a microwave. He ran back to the 7-11 to ask if they had one. They did not.

* * *

I awoke the next morning to a sickening gargling sound coming from the bathroom.

Yep. Jack was in the shower trying to make himself puke. A soggy pizza box sat on the table, ripped open from the middle.

Jack emerged from the bathroom looking like absolute hell. He was in no shape to operate heavy machinery. Jack bundled up his wet clothes into a trash bag and I pulled the car around.

He grabbed an extra bag and held it in his lap the entire ride home. I still had a giant grin plastered on my face as I cranked up the volume to the stereo when Jack released his stomach contents into his sad little trash bag. He barely spoke a word the entire ride back to Los Angeles.

When I dropped him off at his house, Jack took about 10 mins to release himself of the seatbelt and tumbled out of the passenger side.

He dragged himself to the porch and as I pulled away from the driveway, he had his bag full of puke and held a fist in the air as he called out to me,

"Spartaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

* * *

Take note, gentleman. I hate to use the word "wingman", but this is a true blue friend to let himself get absolutely destroyed for purely the sake of his friend meeting a girl. That's how it's supposed to be done.

Thanks, Jack.