About a month ago, I went to a bar called the Spot to celebrate three of my friends’ birthdays that were all within the same week. For whatever nostalgic purposes, they pick the Spot every year, and even though I give my computer screen a Katherine Heigl-esque Fart Face every time I open the birthday invitation, I always go because of my friends’ unparalleled magnificence, and the fact that I rarely get to see them since they’re spread all over the valley now.
Cool story, Ashlee!
Anyways, I decided that night would be a good night to invite my brand new lady acquaintance Dominique to come hang out and get to know each other better. Her blog (and obviously by extension, her personality) is, in one word, HILARIOUS, so my admiration of her makes me want to, in four words, FORCE FRIENDSHIP ON HER. Poor girl. Poor, poor child. So Dom agreed to meet up, and when she did, she brought a striking friend named Nora; a skinny, well-kempt, successful corporate attorney, who instantly won the Hottest Worman in the Bar Award immediately upon setting foot in it.
It was about five minutes after the three of us sat down when a random hick came up to our table and told all of us to scoot over so he could talk to Nora. The son of a bitch went right into it, calling her beautiful, asking where she lived, proposing marriage, etc. Apparently, Dominique and I looked like boiled cabbage in comparison to Nora because the hick didn’t so much as acknowledge our existence once he secured his spot at our table. Not that either of us minded, really. In attempts to help cock block the creep from our friend, Dominique started in on the loud, snarky comments, forcing his conversation into a defensive one, but her efforts couldn’t have failed more than they did because the hick instantly snapped, “You are being truculent. I’m just chatting with your friend, so stop it.” Oh my. This man was a hell of a pro for knowing such an advanced vocabulary word to ward us off. He obviously had some hefty background experience with this type of cockblockery.
The good news is that Nora hardly needed our help at all (not like I was providing any in the first place). The whole time the hick was hitting on her, she was indifferently texting on her phone, and barely spoke more than three sentences in return to his advances. She even upheld her nonchalant demeanor while he was attempting to follow her to the bathroom. I guess the hick wasn’t the only pro at the Spot that night. I respected Nora’s composure, but also wondered why she didn’t just shut him down from the get go, you know? I also admired the hick’s tenacity for about thirty seconds until I realized what decade of what century we now live in. And while this guy was the most plainspoken about wanting to get laid that night, there were plenty of other douchebags trying to cajole ladies into sucking them off. One sad piece o’ shit actually pulled the old Steve and Doug Butabi “What’s up, what’s up, what’s up” move by not letting me and my other hot friend get passed him so we could refill our drinks. Honestly, this flaccid dick of a roadblock probably thought the scene went down like this:
When, in reality, he came off about as charming as this:
The shitty thing about the male Spot clientele acting like animals is that the bartendress was the nicest person I’ve ever met in my entire life. When I ordered my first drink, she smiled and said, “Coming right up!” This shook my core. I collected myself, and then asked her if I could keep a tab open for the night. “SURE!” she exclaimed, “And if there’s anything else you need, just let me know, ‘kay?” I stared at her suspiciously, and backed away nice and slow. She just kept on smiling (I think she might have even waved goodbye, but I’m not sure). While backing out, I bumped into the ancient bar dog, who just looked up at me placidly, and barked, “Watch it, please,” then continued on his quest to find the most sober spot in the joint.
So, back to the hero of this opus. The morning after the Spot birthday party/disaster, I woke up sweating. I just had a moment of shocking clarity and realized I knew Hick! I totally fucked him ten years ago (JUST KIDDING)! No, no, I realized he used to live in my ex-husbands apartment complex back in 2004. When me and EX started dating, he invited me over to a party he was throwing at his place. Everyone was drunk and mirthful, blah, blah, blah, when EX’s downstairs neighbor decided to join the party. It was really late, so the party was already winding down, but in all of our haziness, the remaining guests could still detect a certain level of weirdness immediately. Since I won the Hottest Worman at the Party Award that night (the other girls had left), this stranger was relentless in hitting on me, even in front of EX. I took it in stride, and kept dropping lines to EX that I wanted to go to bed soon. As you might have divined from above, this man takes no hints. Eventually, we had to kick him the fuck out. He left begrudgingly, but oh well. EX and I figured that that was that.
About fifteen minutes later, EX found Hick’s cell phone tucked away between two couch cushions. Goddamnit.
EX ran down to Hick’s apartment, and knocked several times with no answer. He checked the door to see if it was unlocked, which it was, so he entered the apartment and cautiously called out, “Hick??” He didn’t hear any answer, so he placed the cell phone down on a sofa chair, and quietly said, “You left your phone. It’s on the couch.” Suddenly, he heard a noise, and looked over at the bedroom, where Hick was lying face down on his bed, stark naked, spread eagle. EX bailed out fast, and when he got back to his apartment, we giggled about it and went to bed.
The next evening, I was still at EX’s apartment, when Hick came knocking at his door. When EX answered, Hick was holding a tall glass of whiskey in his hand, and said, “Don’t you ever, ever, ever, EVER come into my apartment uninvited.” EX was perplexed, and said, “Sorry, but take it easy. I was just returning your ph--” “Fuck you, man!” Hick yelled. “You almost got shot. It’s my own business if I decide to jerk off in my own bedroom. Asshole.” Whoa, whoa, whoa! I couldn’t tell if I wanted to throw up or bust out laughing. EX slammed the door in Hick’s face, and we got back to eating dinner. Later on still, in the same couch wedge where we found Hick’s cell phone, EX discovered a rusty, dull steak knife hiding out.
So gang, this post could have been a rant about annoying bar flies not knowing when to bug off, but really, I just want to you to feel sorry for me having to wake up hung over with the mental image of Hick’s choad while he’s masturbating.
No comments:
Post a Comment