At some point in your college experience, you will invariably end up befriending the guy who exaggerates about everything. A ubiquitous presence on every campus, he is everyone's friend; a renaissance man, a man of the people, a meaty frat boy with greasy curls of hair straggling out from under a Von Dutch hat. I find that Preston is a name that best fits this guy who exaggerates about everything. We all know a Preston from college in one form or another. He could also be the nicely groomed rich guy from New Hampshire who always wears Lacoste polo shirts. Though his incarnations may vary, his soul remains the same that of a pompous braggart.
If Preston had a sandwich from someplace where you've never had a sandwich, it is now the best sandwich in the universe, and he's going to let you know about it in glorious detail. Even if he knows nothing about food, Preston will find some way to ramble on about how incredible it was to eat that sandwich. Keep in mind, Preston's realm of transcendental experience is not just confined to lunchmeats and bread, as pretty much anything he does in which you have no frame of reference is "totally off the hook."
One of Preston's favorite ways to illustrate this method of coping with inadequacy is by telling you about his night last night. Stumbling in late one morning, it's likely the first words out of his mouth will be: "You fucking missed it loser! You should have come out last night. I got so wasted!" After politely responding that he must have had fun, chances are Preston will fire back with: "Dude, you have no idea." Perhaps with an addendum of: "It was the best night of partying, I think, ever" in the history of mankind."
The goal, obviously, is to make you feel like a douche for not going out to whatever party he chose that night for getting drunk. Maybe you went to a different party, or you maybe you just like to take it easy on Tuesday nights, the point is you didn't follow him, and his was a night of bacchanalian revelry. One way or another, Preston is going to tell you about how "fucking sick" last night was, so you might as well sit back and enjoy. I find the best way to deal with these annoying people is to fuel their fire, rather than try to snuff it out or leave it alone.
By asking the right questions, you can take his natural talent for exaggeration on quite the ride. Sometimes the responses can be very entertaining. Under the right circumstances, you can even get him to just straight up lie about ridiculous shit. For instance, if you ask if there were lots of girls at the party, it won't take long before every guy was getting a lap dance. With deft maneuvering and a little practice, you can hear all about how you missed out on the igloo-sized ice luges and beer slip-n-slides.
Did the party have weed-filled smoke machines? Of course! There were five and they were operated by strippers. And people were skinny-dipping in an entire swimming pool of Grey Goose vodka. I jumped in with a huge cannonball that got everyone wasted. Dude, the kegs there were personalized. And filled with champagne. It was amazing, I was so gone. I'm just laying out the facts, plain and simple: I was rock star wasted. I took the game of wasted to a degree that no one thought possible before. I was the Michael Jordan of wasted. I was so. Wasted.
Preston, don't ever change. You know I can't wait to hear about your future escapades. Tequila-fueled mayhem in Cancun? Sounds awesome. Partying at the Playboy Mansion? Even better. Oh, let's go skydiving, you loveable drunk.