Everything is Simple

Drunk.

For the record, the best guy to be at a bar is the lone guy with the table full of women.

Things I got/was able to do all night:

  • Free drinks (hard liquor and beer)
  • Practically unlimited fist-bumps
  • Facebook friend requests (because I can’t be a creep if I’m with them!)
  • As much face-time with the waitress/bartender as I wanted, (because I’m not a creep if I’m with them!)
  • The choice of what channel I wanted to watch (at a sports bar — QVC for the win, bitches!)
  • Respect from every guy who came over to hit on any of the girls at the table
  • A fake wife/fiancee
  • Hand-holding-time with fake wife/fiancee
  • An encouraging moment with a waitress who felt “bad” because she took her top off for $2,000. I assured her that she wasn’t a whore or a slut (both of which she insisted she now was).

Oh, and we got a lot of free drinks in honor of my graduating. Hell-to-the-yes.

Some of the guys were all ready to buy the girls drinks, because they were done with finals, until they discovered I was graduating. Kind of weird, I know, but I’ll take it.

My ticket ended up being 5.95, and I left a $6 tip, because I felt kind of bad that our waitress stripped on the bar for a bunch of perverts — and that she felt guilty about it.

The perks of hanging out with females.

:)

Pleurosis 3

She greets me with a smile
and asks what it is that I desire.
I cannot avoid the flower in her hair.
I’d never seen a bluer rose prior.

I answer her inquiries directly,
not allowing anything to be misconstrued.
But, I do so with a gentle kindness
because I don’t want her to come unglued.

After stepping away, she returns yet again with another round of Q&A.
But, this time, I don’t think she quite expected what I would say.

Surprised, when I placed my order,
perhaps, she thought me a hamburger-guy.
But, for her, I’m willing to change.
Today, I’m giving salad a try.

She’s the one who can save me.
She can save me, one artery at a time.
I know, when I see the bowl of veggies.
She is the one, beautiful and sublime.

Responsible Parenting

Earlier today, I brought up the topic of Wizard Rock while in conversation with my friend, Stevie. Though she’s a Harry Potter fan, she hadn’t heard of the musical genre. I proceeded to name off every Wizard Rock band that I could find a trace of, in that moment, and then realized my collection of Wizard Rock was nonexistent. This prompted me to contact Coheed, who not only has more Wizard Rock than I would know what to do with, but he frequents the festivals, has met most of the bands, and doesn’t go two days without wearing a Draco and the Malfoys or The Whomping Willows.

A little after 2:30, Coheed and Bob came over. Coheed had his The Whomping Willows shirt on and handed me two flash drives. One of the flash drives was your average run-of-the-mill flash drive. The other was a Draco and the Malfoys flash drive. He’s a huge nerd, but he’s not afraid to admit it.

I looked at the clock, thought about my appetite and asked the guys if they were in the mood for Mexican. A local Mexican restaurant has a lunch special that lasts until 4. You get one entrée with rice and beans for $4.99 or two entrées, the same, for $6.99. It was almost 3, we were all hungry, and being that Coheed is a Mexican and Bob is a starving redneck, we were good to go.

About halfway through the meal, after playfully hitting on the waitress, and molding my mixed-together rice and beans into a dick-and-balls, a middle-aged woman and her two younger daughters arrived and were seated in the booth right behind us.

Coheed said something profane, I don’t remember what, and I alerted him to the fact that there were children present. His response: "I don’t fucking care. They serve alcohol in this establishment." Touché. Time elapsed and a couple more curses escaped Coheed’s mouth. The mother turned her head toward Bob for a moment and then looked back at her 12 ounce Margarita glass, while her two children remained silent, staring at their food. I glanced over, periodically, and the older daughter — sitting facing me — didn’t say a word the entire time.

A few moments later, after we’d payed our check and I made the whole "You want the top?" comment to the waitress about which receipt to leave, Coheed started giving Bob shit for something trivial. In a fit resembling a drunken rage, Bob told Coheed how he didn’t give a fuck about four different things in four separate sentences. At this point, the mother had had enough. She turned completely around, looked at Bob, while Bob stared at Coheed’s left shoulder. "Can you cut it out with the ‘Fucks’ please? I’m here with my daughters and I would really appreciate it if you would stop."

Defeated, Bob agreed to the terms and we would soon exit the restaurant. On our way out, I stopped the waitress to ask for a second opinion. I explained to her that my friends were being profane, but to be fair, the mariachi music wasn’t blaring loud enough for any legitimate restaurant. I also questioned the mother’s parental suitability, as I pointed out that she had a margarita… refilled… and was with her two young daughters. Who was driving? Not to mention, the lady said the very word she demanded Bob stop using. Fuck.

It’s all about the moral high ground.