Warning, danger ahead!
I've been debating whether to post this here or not. This is a story I wrote with the intent of being insulting. I wanted to step outside what was PC and just write with biased humor. There are lots of swears, but I think there's a lot of humor too. Be warned that if you read the following short story that this is your viewer discretion warning. I cannot be held responsible if you can't find the humor in which this story was written. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Some of it is fact some of it is fiction. Let me know what you think.
The “Married Man” By Betty Blunt (AKA: me) So a girlfriend of mine convinced me to meet her and a bunch of her friends at a bar one night. I say, “Why the hell not!” all work no play makes for a shitty time. So out I go.
Now my first inkling that this was not going to be as fun as I wished it would be, was the location. It was at some place down on Whyte Ave. Now I know what most people are thinking.
“What’s wrong with Whyte Ave, you fascist?”
I’ll tell you what’s wrong. It takes forever and a day to find a parking spot you won’t get a ticket for.
You have to walk for days to get from said parking spot to the bar you were trying to park close to.
Being female and walking down dark deserted streets makes me paranoid. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder for predators like Moses looking for Pharaoh’s men. Unlike Moses though, I’m hot which only makes Pharaoh’s men more persistent.
Having to wait in enormous line ups…and I’m sorry, why in all that is sacred and holy should anyone have to wait in a line up at 9:25pm? Makes me want to scream bloody murder! I want to go up to the bouncer and yell in his ear, “Look I know you like playing God out here and all, but do you think you could let me into your empty ass bar, and don’t tell me it’s full. The only thing full around here is your head and I’m not interested in shit. So stop checking the stupid counter in your hand and let me in, I’m freezing my tits off!!” But instead I wait and simmer.
I hate being asked for money by the homeless, lazy-ass-mother-fuckers all over the place. “No. I’m not going to give you change for banging a drum! Immigrants who can’t even speak english are making livings working real jobs, and so can you, pecker!”
Anyways, that’s just a few of many reasons I don’t love going down to Whyte Ave, but on with the story. I get into the bar and it’s as big as a shoebox, yet another reason I hate this area. I can get from the bar to the bathroom and out the door in three steps.
Alright now, it’s time to start thinking positive. I find my friend and it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other. She introduces me to a bunch of her friends and they seem cool. Except for this one chick who has the phrase “That’s like, soooo random!” coming out of her crumb catcher every five seconds. She says it so frequently to just about everything that is said or done around her I find myself staring at her to try and figure out what the hell she’s talking about. I then figure out it’s the hottest thing to say because some chick on ‘The Hills’ says it all the time. I say fuck you! I don’t watch the bloody ‘Hills’ and the phrase is freaking stupid anyway. So I figure I’ll tell her a joke and I’ll forgive all if she laughs at it.
“A guy goes into a drugstore to buy condoms. “What size?" asks the clerk? "Gee, I don't know." The guy says. "Go see Sophie in aisle 4."
He goes over to see Sophie, who grabs him in the crotch, and yells, "Medium!" The guy is mortified! He hurries over to pay and leaves quickly.
Another guy comes in to buy condoms, and gets sent to Sophie in aisle 4. Sophie grabs him and yells, "Large!" The guy struts over to the register, pays, and leaves.
A high school kid comes in to buy condoms. "What size?" The kid embarrassedly says "I've never done this before. I don't know what size." The clerk sends him over to Sophie in aisle 4.
She grabs him and yells "Clean up in aisle 4!"
Everyone within earshot laughs at the joke immediately except random girl. She laughs timidly at the beginning and then after a minute starts roaring when she finally gets it. I realize she understands English as well as any parrot would.
My friend’s sister is there and we start having a great time catching up. I order a couple of the usual drinks, vodka sevens with lime because they don’t have any decent rum. I’m waiting for my drinks at the bar when a creepy old dude comes up to me and starts hitting on me so hard you’d think I was Rihanna and he was Chris Brown.
“So, you have a man?” He asks as he takes a swig from one of the beers he’s double fisting. He reeks of cigarettes, beer, and old man. Don’t ask me what old man smells like cause it’s hard to explain. Something between B.O., stale laundry, and Old Spice (Sorry LL Cool Jay…there’re just some things you can’t bring back no matter how much they pay you to try). I can smell this all with out even taking my eyes off the bar.
I turn to the creepy geezer and he smiling at me likes he’s all that and tube of hemorrhoid cream. Like he’s the shiznit and the rest of us just didn’t get the memo. What the fuck? I mean, seriously?
“Why? You got a son you could hook me up with?” I ask with a sarcastically sweet little smile on my face. He laughs awkwardly as I grab my drinks from the grinning bartender.
“Oh come on, I could show you a good time.” He persists and I have to wonder why some people just can’t take a hint.
Why do some people have to have it spelled out for them? Then I’m the one who’s a bitch after all is said and done. Here’s a note to all the creepy old dudes out there—fine women in a bar, dressed to the nines, don’t want to get hit on by someone fifteen years there senior. Try a trailer park for fuck sakes!
“I hate to break it to you pal but I don’t have Daddy issues.” I shrug my shoulders and get an evil thought. I point out random girl to creepo, “You might have better luck with her she loves a good joke.” I leave him propped up against the bar like a good loser and make my way back to my seat.
I’ve had about four drinks in about an hour and I’m starting to reach Nirvana. You know, that place were you have the perfect buzz. You’re not drunk, you won’t get a hang over, and you’re not slurring or stumbling. You’re lucid, relaxed, and wittier then you ever thought you could be. Yeah, that’s Nirvana, how I love thee. A couple more drinks and I’m there, then a drink every hour or so to maintain it and I’m guaranteed bliss.
I’m chatting it up when I notice an uber hot guy across the shoebox, I mean bar, with some friends. I watch him for a while to see if he has a girl with him, and he doesn’t seem to. He’s tall, got dark hair, a nice tan, and the perfect shoulder to waist ratio, which means he probably works out. He’s wearing a striped polo shirt pulled up to his forearms, which makes him look laid back. Even better, he’s wearing regular jeans not those retarded skinny jeans guys seam to be wearing lately.
Skinny jeans are the sickest shit ever on a guy, and I don’t mean that in a good sickest shit way either. Never, EVER, do I want a man walking around in nut huggers; a guys pants should never be tighter than my own. I mean honestly, if you’ve got to lie down to tuck your package in and zip up your pants, then I, and any other reasonably intelligent female doesn’t want you. Go find your own people! I think they are hanging out with the Emos. Ahhhhhh…Emos. I wish my lawn was an Emo, then it would just cut itself.
Anyways, back to the hot guy. We make eye contact a few times and we smile at each other. If he doesn’t come over here and start talking to me soon, then I’m going over there. Note to guys: If you see a girl eyeing you and smiling at you every time you look over at her, then grow a pair balls and go talk to her because she wants you too. I like a guy with guts. I’m about to get up and talk to him when some guy comes over and sits next to me.
“Hi, I’m Brian.” He says as he stares at me like I should know who the fuck he is.
“Hi?” I say.
“Hey, have you met Brian, he’s a friend of mine.” My girlfriend’s sister tells me. I’m relived he’s not some idiot, drunk on liquid courage coming over uninvited. But he’s still staring at me, and here is my second hint that the night is not going to go swimmingly.
He starts yakking about stupid shit I can’t even remember. All I can see is that the ‘hot stud’ across the room is ignoring me now and probably thinks I’m some kind of tease because of this moron on my left. This idiot is even fucking with my Nirvana, so I start paying attention to him so I can get rid of him or get him talking to someone else. He starts telling me about the ring on his hand.
“Yeah, I like to wear a ring on this finger to keep the girls away. If they think I’m married they don’t bother me so much.” He grins at me like I should agree that he needs some kind of protection against the hordes of women flocking at his feet.
He’s a good-looking guy, but not my type. He tries too hard. His eyebrows are too arched, his hair is too perfect, his clothes are too matchy, and he looks like a blonde Ken doll. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind if a guy waxes his eyebrows. Dude, if you got a centipede growing across your forehead, or some Burt action going on up there, divide that shit up! Do not, however, arch that shit so thin you look like some guy who forgot his drag costume at home. Pass! No thank-you!
I look down at this ring he’s jabbering on about and I pause, “Um…you know you got that ring on the wrong finger, eh?” I say when I notice the ring is on his right hand.
“Oh, yeah I wear one on each hand just in case the chick is real drunk and can’t tell which hand is which.” Again, he smiles at me like he thinks he’s some kind of Rembrandt.
I squint my eyes at him, and my mouth falls open slightly. What a friggin’ retard! I am beside myself at the thought that this is how he picks up chicks, I wonder briefly how often it’s worked. One thing is clear though, the best part of him ran down his mother's legs years ago.
I start involving my friend’s sister sitting next to me on my right, in the conversation. Soon they start chatting it up. As they talk around me, douche bag, I mean Brian starts leaning into me to talk to her. Before I know it they’re making out right in front of me. With the wall at my back and these two making out in front of me, I consider sliding down the banquet seat on to the floor to get out of there. I think about bar floors and my brand new black dress and think better of it. So I wait awkwardly for them to finish.
They finally come up for air grinning at each other, and I say, “Awkward!” and am going to excuse myself from their make out fest, when Brian chirps up.
“I don’t want you to feel left out.” He lurches toward me, as if watching him make out with my friend was the biggest turn on ever. I have just enough time to put my forearm up to block him.
Now here is where the night went terribly wrong.
Instead of my forearm catching him in the chest, it’s too high and gets him in the throat. He’s leaning in so hard that my forearm gets him so hard he chokes himself, and he barfs down the front of my brand new dress.
I. Bloody. Freak. Out!! Enter. Total. Meltdown!
“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!” I scream at him for about five minutes. Now usually five minutes doesn’t seem so long right? I urge you to try it, freak out at something and time yourself, I triple-dog-dare you, ain’t so easy eh? I lost my voice for the entire next day.
Now we have the attention of the entire shoebox sized bar. Immediately, everyone takes three steps away from the scene to get away from projectile puke boy and vomit covered girl. I catch the hot guy looking at me in disgust and I’m so humiliated I could dissolve into the sticky floor.
I run to the bathroom and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. I pass the women’s room line up and get to the sinks as two women who are applying lip-gloss and fluffing up their hair excuse themselves as they catch one glimpse of me.
Now I have a strong stomach, I almost never throw up for anything. But one whiff of puke and I can feel the up-chuck reflex in me start to clench as women run squealing from the bathroom before I can throw up on them. I fight the urge to ralf, just barley. I try to wash the puke and stomach acid off the front of my dress.
There are very few things on this Earth more disgusting than someone else’s vomit in you cleavage. I hope that the douche bag named Brian, hasn’t ruined my favorite Victoria’s Secret bra in the process of totally humiliating me, and defiling my dress. I grab for some paper towels hoping that they don’t only have hand dryers in this shit hole, when a bathroom attendant hands me a hand full of paper towels. I think that was the only time in my life when a bathroom attendant actually came in handy. I drench myself with tap water, use up an entire tree’s worth of paper towels to dry it up as best as I can. Use the attendant’s perfume, and pit stick, and after what must have been almost an hour, I can still smell the barf on me. It made me want to retch. I go back to the table after tipping the attendant a twenty, to grab my jacket and purse.
Brian is trying to mumble some kind of drunken apology but I can’t even understand him. He’s muttering, and spiting as he talks and he’s about as intelligible and eloquent as the Tasmanian Devil. I glare, it’s as if the sight of him may cause my eyes balls to explode! I tell my friends I’m going home, they don’t argue.
I storm down the streets and back to my car like I’m on a warpath. Bums don’t even bother asking me for change this time, must figure I’m not so charitable at the moment. Some drunk guys pass me and asks, “Hey you want to have some fun?” they must have caught a whiff of me because they don’t push their thought any further. I finally get to my car after taking a wrong turn. I am completely sober now, and my time in Nirvana is long forgotten.
Curse Whyte Ave and douche bags everywhere!