A Drunken Coney Island of the MInd

There were just two of us, or maybe three. All around 20 years old, and addled with Testosterone. We charged out of the Corner Bistro and started running all over the parked cars on Jane St. Few car alarms around then. Nonetheless, a woman raised her second-floor window and told us to shut up. The shock was too much for even desultury, mandated "fuck you's."
You mean that the West Village was not our drunken Disneyland? That real people actually lived here? The best parts of the West Village look like a stage-set, with perfectly proportioned townhouses and angled streets. It never entered into my drunken mind that actual human beings lived there, instead of actors playing a role.
Later, you would spot a bunch of rowdies being loud and stupid, and figure that they were the equivalent of white trash who had come from Jersey on the PATH train. You couldn't believe that you had once been like them.
We never, though, participated in the wooos! That seemed to be the call of the meathead. Check out Hoboken near the train terminal and you will hear, far and wide, this buttheaded screaming into the night. How something so obviously dumb have any attraction to it?
If there was a Wikipedia entry on it, it might read something like this:
wooo! or alternately whoo! is a commonly expressed cry of the weekend night by young men who have drank too much alcohol. Whether this barking idiocy actually attracts women is unknown, but everyone in the partiers general area hates their guts while they grow their beer guts. Whoo! is commonly found in Cancun on Spring Break, financial service workers in New Jersey and the eastern Upper East Side, and all areas near frat houses.
Wait! Someone just tossed me a Coors Light. I too can have a good time now, since as every sports ad will tell you, or strongly suggest, you can't have fun without beer. Whoo!