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December 01, 2004
At the Bar with Mom
I was hanging out at a bar with some friends down in Pensacola, Florida. None of us lived in Pensacola, so we hit a couple restaurants earlier during the day. My hornball friends attacked the captive waitstaff with what they claimed to be flirtation. Noticing their visible disdain for another table full of testosterone laden males trying to get action I was fairly embarrassed and took no part in the borderline workplace harrassment.
When we got to the bar, however, I intended to pull out all the stops. After three drinks. No make it four.
Ok, just one more.
At some point I spotted two females walking past. One of them was hot. Very hot. At least from what I could tell through my extremely hazy goggles.
Knowing that if I pointed her out to my friends they would insist I finally pull out those stops I was talking about and approach the girl. I got up walked across the room to talk to her. I watched them climb down a flight of stairs and I followed.
I was a little behind them and by the time I got to the stairs I couldn't see where they went. Still, the stops were gone and I went down the stairs. At the bottom I scanned the room and after a pass or two found the other woman at the bar. I walked up to her and asked about her friend. She turned and said something like, "Oh. You mean my seventh daughter?"
I'm not sure what she said exactly. I was too taken aback by her resemblance to Bozo the Clown.
She had the wildest make-up I'd ever seen. She was painted white like a geisha, but had rosy cheeks, blue eye shadow, hideously bright red lips, wore way too much mouse in ther hair, etc.
Ahhh? The girl you were with? Where did she go?
My seventh daughter?
I guess that could be her.
Oh, she's out on the dancefloor with that big guy.
Damn.
Why?
I was going to ask her if she wanted a drink.
You should.
No, she's dancing with that guy.
He's a family friend. You should just go ask her.
So that's what I did. I drunkenly marched out on the dancefloor tapped her shoulder and asked her if she wanted a drink.
Yes. Tequila.
I drunkenly marched back to the bar, ordered two tequilas. Then went back out to interrupt her on the dancefloor with a drink.
She took it, slammed it and turned her back on me. I stood there for a minute with my drink before deciding to slam it as well and return to my friends. When I reached them I was in a sort of belligerent mood. They egged me on. I decided I was going to steel the martini glasses on the next table to make myself feel better. They agreed it was the best idea.
I grabbed them and stuffed a couple of them down my pants. I put them in my pants upside down and my cinched my belt around the stems of the glasses. They were in there pretty well, and all that showed was a bulge in the front.
Just as I returned to the table where my friends were sitting the hot girl walked up to talk to me. She thanked me for the drink and tried to start a conversation. I turned and sat down. I understand she stood there for a bit and then turned and walked out.
What the hell are you doing? She's hot. She wanted to talk to you.
Dude. Don't you understand? Look at me. I can't talk to a girl with martini glasses down my pants.
Posted by calculatoronfire at December 1, 2004 12:26 PM