“Well, you look like a redneck if you had a different shirt, your pants were dirtier, and you had boots on.”

I let this idiotic argument go because I was still annoyed. “You know redneck is a bad thing to call someone right?”

“No it’s not,” she said assuredly.

“What? You’re kidding me. If you were a guy and called anyone that in the States you’d be punched.”

“You’re wrong. No you wouldn’t.” She said this with crossed arms and an argumentative pretentious look that I abhor. I later found out she’s sisters with the entitled brunette.

“Did any of your hillbilly Kansas friends ever call people rednecks?”

“Yeah, all the time.” She looked victorious.

“Was it to their face?”

“Well… no.”

Annoyed with the whole conversation, I asked her if she ate McDonald’s. She said she loved it. I told her, as condescendingly as possible, that McDonald’s burns down the Amazon to farm beef and that she was ruining her country’s richest natural resource. I’m not sure why I brought it up, but it certainly made her jaw drop; whether out of remorse or anger I’m not sure because I had already headed off for in search of kinder drinking partners.

“So, we wanted to go back over to your apartment to go swimming, but we need to get our bikinis. Do you guys mind coming over to my parents’ house for a little while and then we’ll head over to your place?” asked the entitled one the next day in the car. Between texting, looking at herself in the mirror and gawking at us in the back seat, she made for a relatively erratic driver.

“Sure, that sounds great. We’ve got nothing to do,” Sam said.

“Awesome.” She paused. “Oh shit, we’ve got to explain how we met you guys!”

“What? Why?”

She ignored me. “Pucci! We met you at Pucci! That works!”

“What the fuck is Pucci?”