Skipping out on my Tuesday night shenanigans and the nagging reality of my grocery-less apartment led me down the path to my go-to bar after work yesterday evening. I figured I’d get a bite to eat, have a beer and chat with my friend behind the bar. Unfortunately for me, there was a sporting event (no idea which flavor) at the nearby arena and the place was packed. Not an open seat anywhere on the main floor. I did what I hadn’t done in years and descended to the basement bar to wait out the crowds. Luckily, I ran into a couple of friends already sitting at the sparsely populated bar so I could avoid staring at my phone for an hour, attempting to look like I was alone on purpose. Leaving my “main floor” friend text-instructions to let me know when a seat opens up at her bar, I settled in with a small portion of the Lesbian Legion.
The only other patrons in the basement were a table of quintessential douchebag guys who had strategically placed themselves within arm’s reach of the jukebox. When one of my companions got up to go feed the juke, they offered many unsolicited comments and advice on what she was or was not being a “poser” about. I didn’t realize people outside of high school could still be “posers”, but I guess if you’re a douchebag, you don’t need to bother yourself with silly details like what’s passe and what’s not. After yelling rude things in our direction and inquiring as to whether I offered a burger with my shake, they were reprimanded by the bartender and behaved (outwardly) for the rest of their stay. I’m not positive it was the semi-effeminate bartender’s words that caused them to quiet their ass-faces, but rather the fact that our little trio of intimidating women turned into a gaggle of lesbians about 20 minutes later. Even a douchebag knows when he’s been beat. Though the comments stopped, their music choices continued to haunt us, bringing up the subject of Nickelback and their impending concert in our city. My friend was only half listening to our conversation and caught only the part where I pumped my fist and exclaimed, “Yes!” What she didn’t know, was that I was “yessing” about the potential for d-bag hunting before and after the show. She accused me of being a Nickelback fan (the ultimate insult) and threatened to end our friendship on the spot. I threatened right back, saying that anyone who believes I could be a fan of Nickelback is no friend of mine anyway. She responded with, “well, you look like a Nickelback fan”. After begging her to elaborate on that observation, she answered simply with, “you’re straight”. Fair enough.
Before I get ahead of myself and use up material from part two of my mid-week adventure with the Lesbian Legion, I’d like to back up and mention that between the three of us, some terrible, terrible things came out of our mouths. We talked freely about things like asparagus-pee, pores that seeped with onion fumes, fat-girl shopping experiences and accusations of certain vacuum-related pasttimes. As I struggled through my vodka-soda (soda water is gross) and tried to avoid spitting it out in a fit of laughter, I forgot all about re-joining the surface dwellers on the main floor and settled into what would turn out to be a very entertaining evening.