Do You Have What It Takes to be a Maverick or a Goose?

Posted: April 13, 2011 by divebardiva in Daily Ramblings

Okay people, we’ve all seen Top Gun (especially that volleyball scene…I rewind that shit over and over), and I think people might be confused at what it takes in this dog-eat-dog world to be an actual wingman.

Unless you’re in the military, it DOES NOT involve jets and looking over your shoulder for sneaky MIGS on your six. It DOES involve outsmarting cock-blockers, secretly controlling alcohol consumption and, occasionally, taking one for the team.

Now there are a few things I need to clarify before I fully head into this rant. One is although I consider myself a modern woman, some things about feminism irritate the hell out of me…I like it when a boy opens a door for me. It’s polite and wonderful and does not for one fucking second make me feel weak.

Secondly, anyone can be an asshole or a wingman. I am not so caught up with political correctness that I feel the need to use terms like “wingwoman” or “wingperson.” Grow the hell up, people. Much like the word asshole, wingman is universal.

I will give a few examples of what I am talking about and you can judge for yourself what kind of wingman you are — or the traits you need to look for in the perfect wingman.


You’re insanely hot for a person, but alas, there is someone else vying for the prize. A good wingman will not only head the cockblocker off at the pass, she will also inform the hot-prey that they need to pick a lane and figure out who they actually want to go home with. (The wingman never wants her friend wasting time on someone interested in someone else.) 

Once the decision is made, the wingman will create a distraction. Like taking the cockblocker to the bar to have “fun” shots together while you gain the upper hand in the situation.


You’re interested in someone and they seem equally interested in you. There’s a slight problem with nervousness, however, and one or both of you starts drinking copious amounts of alcohol. This is not going to end well for anyone because…well, the terms “whiskey dick” and “starfish” come to mind.

Some things are enhanced by alcohol but it is always a fine line between “freaky fun for everyone,” and “Houston, we have a problem.” Or the worst-case scenario, “Do you have a bucket I can put next to the bed?” A good wingman smartly monitors alcohol consumption and makes sure that your dick stays OUT of the dirt and IN the game.


My friend K tells this story. She was out with a newly single friend M who was ready to get back in the saddle. M meets a cute boy with a goofy friend. K, being a good wingman, entertains Mr. Goofball while M sucks face with Cute Boy. One thing leads to another, and they all go back to Cute Boy’s house — even though K really wants to head home.

M and Cute Boy head to the bedroom. A very short time later — around 15 minutes — M comes running out the bedroom saying, “We have to go. NOW!” K grabs their purses and they run to their car. (A good wingman NEVER questions.)

In the car, M tells the story. She and Cute Boy are making out. Things are progressing nicely. They’re about to slide into third base when Cute Boy gets up. M thinks he’s going to turn off the light. But no, Cute Boy gets up, raises his pants, and detaches his artificial leg. He then leans the leg against the wall and — get this –hops over to the bed ready to get freaky.

M had no idea he was missing a limb. If she had known before, it may have been okay. But she was so shocked and horrified (because she had no advance warning), she screamed and ran the hell out of there. And K was right there to facilitate the getaway.


And this comes from my own wingman status and why, to a certain Maverick, I am lovingly called Goose. Okay, Maverick sees a hot guy who she’s wanted to hook up with for years. (Even though she is not that freakin old so it seemed a little implausible. Again, a good wingman doesn’t question.)

Hot boy is with a fella who, even in my tipsy state, I suspect may be the type to have heads in a freezer. Maverick pleads for my help, and I eventually relent. So I spend the night talking with heads-in-a-freezer guy while Mav has the time of her life with the hottie.

Fast forward: I sleep for three hours on a strange sofa with two cats and a dog before I have to get up to work the breakfast shift. Now, you would have thought I had completed my mission. But alas, that was not the case.

The Dahmer wannabe was up bright and early still hanging all over me even though he got zero affection the night before. Because I slept with a bevy of pets, I had dog and cat hair all over my black uniform. Psycho offered to lint roll my clothes. Before I could decline, he grabs the roller and starts on my back.

At that point, Sweet Maverick points out the pet hair on my crotch area. Psycho then proceeds to lint roll my “area” several times in a very fast St. Louis Arch pattern until I jump up and scream at him to stop.

Now that, my friends, is being the ultimate wingman. And it’s a medal of honor I wear proudly.

So, if you are thinking of taking on the role of wingman know that it is a serious undertaking and should not be taken lightly. Also, if you suck at it, don’t even think of calling yourself Maverick or Goose.

Do you have your own wingman story, submit your shit to our aptly titled ‘Submit Your Shit’ section 🙂

  1. […] (From “Do You Have What It Takes to be a Maverick or a Goose?” […]

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