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Today |
.Last night Melinda and I go to the Frog and Peach, a local pub just around the corner from where I live. Wednesday night is Reggae Night at the F & P. Now Melinda likes dancing. Whether it’s to reggae, r&b, electronica, or rock, Melinda turns into the Lord of the Dance. You could bang a wooden spoon against a pot and she’d do a jig for you. I’m not a dancer, I’m a drinker. If I drink too much, I may turn into a dancer, but not of my own accord. It’s the booze, see. It makes me do things … horrrrible things. But we’re having a good time, me drinking, Melinda … drinking. Well, we’re sitting at the bar and that’s when I notice it. Highly conspicuous, never unapparent, a huge ass is jiggling, nay, UNDULATING, immediately to the right of us. This ass, man, it’s got a torso growing out one end and two legs out the other. What I mean to say is that this ass is the dominating characteristic of the girl who’s attached to it. Friends of The Ass have a tough time introducing it to others. “Oh, hey Stephanie. I’d like to introduce you to my friend, The Ass – Oh, I mean, Trisha…” That’s how bad this ass was. But you wanted to touch it … it was begging you to touch it … YOU NEEEEDED TO TOUCH IT. Yeah, okay, I touched it. Don’t judge me. My twin was in attendance as well. He’s got a name … Nick. Nick lived two doors down from me in the dorm freshman year. Apparently we share some level of resemblance because a few people couldn’t tell us apart for the better half of the year. I guess we were friends, sort of, but he always exuded this euro-trashiness that gave me a bit of the heebie and the jeebie. You know how some people believe everyone has an exact double living somewhere in the world. Well Nick’s my euro-trash double … fresh of the boat from Croatia. Melinda pesters me to say hello to the Doppelganger. I refuse … repeatedly. Finally, I win … or so I think. After a couple more beers, a liquid-courage-infused Melinda starts rapping with this guy. Her euro-trash proximity alarm goes off as he approaches the bar to order another Cosmopolitan… “We see you every time we’re here!” slurs Mel. “Yeah, I have no social life so I come here every night,” gangers the Doppel. He says this for real. Hey, the jerk store called… “Hey, man, I saw you swimming the other day,” he euro-trashes at me. “You looked like you were sinking pretty bad.” “Hey, shut up, assface. I happen to have a heavy bone structure…” I don’t say this. I fake chuckle instead. You’re sooooo funny, doppelganger. I find that when I humor people I don’t like, I can laugh at them behind their back all I want, whenever I want. After another beer, we bail hardcore. My belly starts grumbling … I need foodstick sustenance from 7/11. You’re familiar with the foodstick, right? No?! Jesus, you poor fools. You haven’t lived till you’ve had a pepperoni and cheese foodstick from 7/11. Alright, foodsticks (I’m not even sure what they’re really called, but I like calling em’ foodsticks) kind of look like taquitos. But bigger… And instead of meat and/or chicken inside of them, there’s pepperoni and cheese filling… This filling is encased in a baked dough-like substance … instead of a tortilla. Processed deliciousness… MMMM AUHGGGGG… Anyway, the foodstick is kept warm on one of those hotdog-roller-warmer … things. Nobody knows how long each particular foodstick has been in the warmer, but it’s better not to ask. It just adds to the grand adventure I like to call … The Foodstick Consumption Adventure™. I think the foodstick has sedative properties because once the last morsel passes into my gullet, I’m out like Anna Nicole after one too many Quaaludes…
It's insane, this guys taint - 2004-12-07 |