Before I get negative, let me start with the benefits of working in a small town bar that has become the Mecca for old, sad, pervy drunks:
1. I always drink for free (i.e. I leave drunk and happy, no matter what)
2. I always feel like the sexiest woman ever (I’m usually the only vagina under 50 in that place)
3. I am being paid to party.
Working in this hole has introduced me to a new and very freakish side of living in the suburbs. I have been proposed to, offered a bikini wax (under the conditions that I could pick out the wax of my preference from Wal-Mart), and asked by a very hideous couple to join them in a threesome (oh my god, GAG)…
What can I say? It’s a classy place. Needless to say, the bartender and I use our time wisely. Often times, we sit and devise dirty names for shots (as if there aren’t enough)—our most recent was Purple Pussy Juice. MMM….soooo appealing. I think Nut on Your Knickers might be a good one too…. I need to remember to bring that up tomorrow…
Anyways, let's get back to the window-lickers who seem to LOVE the crappy-ass bar I “work” in. About a month back, a woman in her late 30s or early 40s came in. She looked as if she had finally torn herself away from her dark, cat-infested house in an attempt to re-acclimate to civilization. She was a little round, very sweaty and wearing an outfit that was obviously torn from a Goodwill rack in a mad dash. She came marching in with a false confidence in attempt to mask her severe social discomfort. I greeted her and asked her what kind of drink she would like. She responds by telling me that she does not drink alcohol and does not come in to “these kind of places”. At this point I am confused. Who the fuck wanders into a BAR at 10:30 on a Saturday night when they are ALONE and do not drink alcohol???!!! The bartender and I traded awkward glances, and I allowed him to try and get the answer from her. She informs us both in a very nervous, barking manner that she is a “good Christian woman from Georgia who does not go out drinking in bars”. In my head, I’m thinking, “I know, we got that, crazy.”
After her bizarre introduction, our false expressions of kindness must have been a green light for her to unleash a seizure of hysterical babbling about how she feels that everyone from South Carolina is a redneck with big “intimidating” tattoos and pit bulls. Also, she informs us that all men from South Carolina like to punch their pregnant girlfriends in the belly so they don’t have to pay child support. At this point, I couldn’t stand the madness anymore, so I pretended that a customer was calling my name from far across the bar and RAN. The poor bartender was stuck until one of our regulars started banging his empty glass on the bar because he was too drunk to remember what he ordered the first time. With the lack of audience, she stormed out frantically shouting that she hoped we had a blessed day and that she knows that SHE will because she loves the Lord and speaks to him everyday. Holy fuckballs, lady.
In the next hour, another customer topped off her crazy when he sloppily asked me if I had a furry butthole. I think he’s one of those pregnant belly punchers that Jesus Lady was ranting about.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Pig
Not the pork kind. The uniform-wearing kind….although this one doesn’t. He’s an undercover narcotic cop and a dipshit. Back when I was 18, horny and just starting to shed my awkward teenage appearance my generation experienced the phenomena of MySpace. The website literally became God. Jagged haircuts, Monroe piercings and bathroom mirror pictures of yourself became the ultimate ways to fool strangers into thinking you are the shit. In all actuality, it opened doorways for some interesting dating opportunities for me. Well, if you really want to call it that. Out of it, I met my first and only perceived “soul mate”, a bunch of creeps, a boyfriend who lasted for 4 years, and my temporary make-out creep, who I will refer to as Pig.
Pig is a fairly attractive guy: fit, lots of tattoos (good artwork, not shitty tribal work), a cool job, and band member with an air of mystery—which I later found to be blatant social handicap. He approached me via MySpace message, telling me that he thought I was cool because I liked the Beatles. Naturally, I was quite naïve and had yet to find an attractive guy with similar interests, so of course I immediately wanted his nuts. I found that he was 10 years older than me…hot. After a few awkward, stuttering phone conversations, I worked up the blind nerve to meet up with him (of course, I brought my best friend for safety).
After the best friend confirmed he was safe and fuckable, we made a date—or make-out appointment, rather. So Pig decides that we should watch Jackass—cool right? NOT. Well, I was hoping to get a little bump and grind out of it, so I didn’t quite give a damn.Anyways, we sit through what seemed like HOURS of Steve-O being a gross piece of shit, and me begging to fast-forward through the vomit shots—finally, the douche bag leans in to kiss me.
P.S. The whole time, he’s been drinking beer and teasing me for not being of age (asshole). Oddly enough, I like the taste of cold beer on a man’s breath right before he shoves his tongue in my mouth. It’s pretty hot actually.
We fumble and sweat all over each other for about an hour before I realize it’s 2 AM and I’m a loser whose mommy and daddy will be wondering why I was out past my curfew (I will explain more in forth-coming blogs). A couple weeks go by, and we make another make-out appointment.
At this point, I was ravenous for him, so I arrive at his house, ready to rock his world (or what I thought might rock his world…I was 18). Before we start goin’ at it, he tells me that he spent the last 4 hours shaving his entire body. WTF?! Why? Why must he inform me of this? Why are we “small talking”? Just feel me up already! Then he goes on to inform me of all his strange body insecurities and how he can’t keep a girlfriend because he doesn’t want to be forced to converse with women, let alone please them. Whoa. Just lick me, okay?
So, we make out and he wants to fuck me, but I say no, I’d rather get him off and get on my way. I needed time to contemplate this neurotic load he just dumped on me. Oh yeah, and when he got off, he ran straight to the bathroom and showered….what a weird fuck. To this day, that was the most sanitary sexual experience I’ve ever encountered outside of a shower…and I never want it again. I was waiting for him to break out rubbing alcohol and start rubbing it all over his genitals.
After that, our interaction was limited to MySpace and phone encounters and I ended up meeting my now ex boyfriend at the time. Of course, before that happened Pig pulled the dick card by becoming super flaky and just stopped calling. I eventually forgot him and added him to the list of pathetic sexual encounters that never quite satisfied me. Four years later, I am 2 months single, and I get a message from the man-skank. Now, mind you, after our encounters, I started to hear quite a few stories of how he has a history of being a slut and screwed around with quite a few girls while we were doing whatever the fuck that was….
Well, I was newly single, and a little lonely, so a text correspondence ensued. He thought he would be cute and ask when our next make-out session would be. In so many words, I politely declined his dick-brained request and went on with life, even thought he insisted on badgering me with nonsense text discussion (lame). Eventually, I made a few insulting jokes and told him to suck my dick and he seemed to get the picture and give up. WRONG. Eight months later, I make a goofy status update on MySpace that refers to my underwear and his slimy dick alarm goes haywire and cannot resist sending me a creep message that reminds me that he knows just what kind of underwear I like to wear. Fuck off shit brains!
Pig is a fairly attractive guy: fit, lots of tattoos (good artwork, not shitty tribal work), a cool job, and band member with an air of mystery—which I later found to be blatant social handicap. He approached me via MySpace message, telling me that he thought I was cool because I liked the Beatles. Naturally, I was quite naïve and had yet to find an attractive guy with similar interests, so of course I immediately wanted his nuts. I found that he was 10 years older than me…hot. After a few awkward, stuttering phone conversations, I worked up the blind nerve to meet up with him (of course, I brought my best friend for safety).
After the best friend confirmed he was safe and fuckable, we made a date—or make-out appointment, rather. So Pig decides that we should watch Jackass—cool right? NOT. Well, I was hoping to get a little bump and grind out of it, so I didn’t quite give a damn.Anyways, we sit through what seemed like HOURS of Steve-O being a gross piece of shit, and me begging to fast-forward through the vomit shots—finally, the douche bag leans in to kiss me.
P.S. The whole time, he’s been drinking beer and teasing me for not being of age (asshole). Oddly enough, I like the taste of cold beer on a man’s breath right before he shoves his tongue in my mouth. It’s pretty hot actually.
We fumble and sweat all over each other for about an hour before I realize it’s 2 AM and I’m a loser whose mommy and daddy will be wondering why I was out past my curfew (I will explain more in forth-coming blogs). A couple weeks go by, and we make another make-out appointment.
At this point, I was ravenous for him, so I arrive at his house, ready to rock his world (or what I thought might rock his world…I was 18). Before we start goin’ at it, he tells me that he spent the last 4 hours shaving his entire body. WTF?! Why? Why must he inform me of this? Why are we “small talking”? Just feel me up already! Then he goes on to inform me of all his strange body insecurities and how he can’t keep a girlfriend because he doesn’t want to be forced to converse with women, let alone please them. Whoa. Just lick me, okay?
So, we make out and he wants to fuck me, but I say no, I’d rather get him off and get on my way. I needed time to contemplate this neurotic load he just dumped on me. Oh yeah, and when he got off, he ran straight to the bathroom and showered….what a weird fuck. To this day, that was the most sanitary sexual experience I’ve ever encountered outside of a shower…and I never want it again. I was waiting for him to break out rubbing alcohol and start rubbing it all over his genitals.
After that, our interaction was limited to MySpace and phone encounters and I ended up meeting my now ex boyfriend at the time. Of course, before that happened Pig pulled the dick card by becoming super flaky and just stopped calling. I eventually forgot him and added him to the list of pathetic sexual encounters that never quite satisfied me. Four years later, I am 2 months single, and I get a message from the man-skank. Now, mind you, after our encounters, I started to hear quite a few stories of how he has a history of being a slut and screwed around with quite a few girls while we were doing whatever the fuck that was….
Well, I was newly single, and a little lonely, so a text correspondence ensued. He thought he would be cute and ask when our next make-out session would be. In so many words, I politely declined his dick-brained request and went on with life, even thought he insisted on badgering me with nonsense text discussion (lame). Eventually, I made a few insulting jokes and told him to suck my dick and he seemed to get the picture and give up. WRONG. Eight months later, I make a goofy status update on MySpace that refers to my underwear and his slimy dick alarm goes haywire and cannot resist sending me a creep message that reminds me that he knows just what kind of underwear I like to wear. Fuck off shit brains!
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