FREE (AND LEGAL) MOOD MUSIC:
So I was molested by a desperate housewife Monday night.
I stopped by a local watering hole on my way home from work, choosing to combine a sorta work-related phone meeting with a local college alum and the absolutely amazing Happy Hour specials dinky college town bars tend to offer during the summer.
Mobile phones are very useful things sometimes...
Towards the end of a rather lengthy conversation about online security and the intricacies of corporate intelligence-gathering, this very drunk woman sat on the bar stool next to me.
The woman started demanding to know who was on the other end of the phone. Three inches from my face and talking through her six Captain and Cokes, she started asking me the most random questions.
You a gov'ment agent, aren'tcha? You a cop? My son used to want to be a cop, then he knocked up some bitch in Camden [Ohio] and had to drop outta school...
I tried ignoring the woman, but it did no good. The "hold-on-one-sec-I'm-working" finger movement did nothing. Turning my back to her didn't do much, either, save give her an excuse to make comments about my ass.
I finally got off the phone when the woman decided to go all "creepy drunk Baby Boomer" on me.
She tried to buy me some god-awful shot. She started finding excuses to rub my shoulders and to fondle my calves (I was wearing shorts and, yes, I know I have some definition in my calves, thank ya very much.)
I can normally deal with drunk women getting all touchy-feely. I'm not a touchy-feely kinda guy, but I've drank in enough taverns, coast-to-coast, Great Lakes-to-Gulf, to understand that some folks completely lose their ability to respect boundaries and personal space. I've been that drunk myself once or twice.
And then she decided, after the bartender had already cut her off and there was no chance of any more booze, to grab my junk and mention that she had cable if I was interested...
Cable. As in cable television.
That was the best barroom pick-up line she could muster.
Have I mentioned yet that this woman was probably a DECADE older than my MOTHER?
* * * *
A local contractor/occasional drinking buddy gave me a call from a bar Tuesday afternoon.
Unable to start work on a project, he and his brother decided to go out early and wanted to know if I wanted to join them.
Despite explaining that some people still had to work, he was insistent. After I rejected his offer for the third time, I asked him why he wanted me to come down to the bars.
"Man, my brother's about to kill some skinny little white dude."
The contractor and his brother are two very large (an easy 700 pounds combined), well-educated (the contractor holds a master's degree and works construction because, well, construction is much better money) black men .
Apparently, they'd decided to buy a round for said "skinny white dude" - a local fraternity member - who had shown an interest in their conversation. Somewhere over the course of the round, the white frat boy had decided that it was appropriate to refer to the two men as his "big black bitches."
I told the contractor I'd help spring for the bail money, if need be. Or provide an alibi.
The contractor laughed and hung up.
Some guys are just too dumb to survive.
Seriously. How stupid does one have to be, anyway?
* * * *
A high school kid felt the need to tell me this weekend that she cherished her virginity, that she needed to be a Bride of Christ, and that she needed to feel God's love.
Why did she feel the need to share this bit of information with a total stranger?
Fuck if I know.
I had politely asked her to turn the headphones down on her iPod. I was sitting on a park bench in Oxford's downtown, reading an Allen Ginsberg chapbook. The girl, for some reason, decided that she just HAD to pick the bench next to me to rock out to the likes of DC Talk and Jars of Clay...
WAY Too much information, chica. Lay off the communion wine.
What the fuck was she listening to on that damned iPod, anyway?
If there's one generation that scares me more than the Millennials, it's the generation sneaking up behind them.
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