corpho

What a day! Have you ever had to go out with someone, knowing full and well that you were pretty poor, but wanted to play it off as if you weren't? If not, go fuck yourself. This isn't the place for you. But if so, it can be pretty stressful, right? The whole time the other person is talking to you, you're adding up what your three beers, plus a tip for each bloody beer is going to total. Fucking 'eck! I was already under the impression that the "new friend" I was going out to drinks with "liked to drink", but then she kept trying to order Smirnoff Ice or Mike's Hard Lemonade wherever we went, and one bartender (God bless his outspoken soul) made some remark about, "Oh, we don't sell stuff like that here." That was pretty sweet. But the first place we went to had a charmingly inattentive waitress that appeared once every hour, and only long enough to cut a harried swath through the pissed-off clientele outside (where we were). A lovely oaf in a white linen suit decided he wanted to smoke a cigar for the rest of the night. The hilarious thing was that when he lit up, it was like a small tire fire had been ignited, and everyone turned in his direction and looked right at him. His lady friend got up and we thought they were leaving, but she only got up so she could be upwind of him. As he was making the seat switch with her, he looked at my friend and inquired, "Is my cigar smoke blowing on you?" I can't remember what his exact words were, but whatever the combination, we understood his intent to be that of apology or empathy, so my friend replied in the affirmative due to his affable demeanor. His next words were, "Well, this is the smoking section!" And that was his challenge: If you don't like it, get out of here. We were bored with the whole thing at that point. Mr. White Linen's panties were in a wad. It's nice that he snapped at us as he was trading seats with his girlfriend so her hairdo wouldn't have to smell like a Havana whorehouse. Thank you, shitbag-in-linen. Besides, the drinks at that place were shitty in the way that only tourist traps can be shitty -- like the drinks are made out of boiled mattresses and yellow crayon shavings.

Then what looked like a giant dump truck pulled up by the bar, but it wasn't a dump truck, per se. It was a truck that technically was a dump truck, but it came to suck the dumps of shit out of the sewage system of the high rise across the street from our lovely sidewalk cafe locale. It proceeded to suck shit -- very loudly, mind you -- for a very long while. Every patron outside ran inside or paid and left within minutes. My friend and I stayed, shouted to each other to near hoarseness, waited even longer for our mysterious waitress to appear with our check, and were gawked at by the shit-suckers because we were stupid enough to stay outside and protect our turf.

Was that the end of the freak fest on the East Side? Fuck no! We went a little south and came across a shitty, brand-new "tavern". We were carded even though the place was empty and sad looking, save the few frat-types doing their frat-type thing near the bar. A guy walked up to us and introduced himself, and by the way, he was so-an-so, the DJ from Kiss FM. I wanted to ask, "Are you the one that got fired for saying on air how you wanted to molest the 6 yer-old daughter of your rival if someone would call you and give you her address?" But that was another DJ, and yes, such a thing did happen in NYC last month -- scary. But the BEST PART of the night was when a Jabba the Hutt walked into the bar and told me that my dress was nice, but the ring I was wearing -- while it was perfect with my dress! -- was not a good ring on its own because it made me look too...eccentric. I told him that maybe I was an eccentric person. He said that I couldn't be for my age. I asked him what he thought my age was and he said...22. I said, "I'm 30!" And he said:

THAT'S WHY YOU HAVE ALL THOSE CROW'S-FEET UNDER YOUR EYES.

I thought that was goddamn priceless. I said, "You were just saying that I was 22, and now I have crow's-feet?" And then he proceeded to indicate on his face where my crow's-feet were located. I gave him a sour look, and then he asked me:

DO YOU WANNA BUY A CD?

And then he showed me what looked like CD's for a Mexican band of some sort. I shot him an even more sour look and he somehow got the hint to fuck off.

But now I feel regret because all I can feel is how I missed the opportunity to fuck the shit out of that flattering mofo. All women really crave a balls-out go-getter like that SOB. Fuck! Another one that got away....