OPArsenal
TNPer
A little while ago, I went out to a club. Maybe to a nightclub. The evening was such epic win that I feel compelled to share it with you loyal readers. It would be a disservice to you if I did not.
So I arrive at the bar in question, The Pearl. It's a pretty cool joint; a little indie rock bar that serves the beer I like and has bartenders that are real cool cats. I was meeting some folks from work there and I took one for the team by being the first one there so we could grab the lone table. I look over to the door and in walks a man that I hadn't seen in an age, my friend(?) Robert. He sees me, I see him, and he weeble-wobbles over, not because he was intoxicated but because he's a big fat fuck; at least 350 lbs. For background purposes so you can identify with this member of my merry band of misfits, Robert is that guy. As in "don't be that guy." He's the one that talks constantly and tells jokes that aren't funny and are borderline offensive. If you're familiar with the material then I would say that he's a clone of David Brent, just American and with no goatee or authority over anyone. However, Robert does have a job that pays well and is steady so he has money and he uses this money to buy beer. For everyone. All of a sudden, this fat cockjockey has just become my new best friend.
We sit at the table and shoot the shit for about a half an hour, me listening just enough to keep the beer flowing from Robert's pocket, my eyes constantly scanning the portal through which my salvation will appear. If I can get one more person I know at this table I can talk with them, make fun of Robert and still have a source of free beer. And in that door walks said salvation.
Jake is one of my best friends and his arrival was just what I needed. He has a quick wit and very acerbic humor. When we get together, we feed off of each other and evicserate assholes like Robert. Fortunately, Robert's the type of guy who loves attention, even if it's the type that tears him a new one. So far, no one from work has shown up and Jake gets us up off our asses and drags us outside. On the way out, I request a Smiths song from the DJ.
Outside the temperature is cool and there's a table with some barstools, so we snag it and drink beer and chew through about a pack of cigarettes. After Robert had had enough of our constant humiliation, he said that he was leaving and going down the road to the Shantytown Pub, someplace I'd never been. We told him that we'd meet him down there, both Jake and I understanding that this was our ticket to a fun time. No Robert, and plenty of moody indie chicks that hate Daddy. Robert then dropped the bombshell on us, and I quote: "If you show up, you're drinking whatever you want and it's on me." He left, and we were going to follow him in a bit if Jake's woman search didn't pan out. I was pulling wingman duty, due to me having a girlfriend and all. And a kid on the way.
So Robert leaves, Jake and I talk to girls, and we get a little crowd going. There's some guys, some gals, and we're having a good time telling people our made-up childhood. I need a cigarette, so I get one and Jake goes to light me up. He's using a matchbook that he got from the bar, and he does this "fold the match over and snap your fingers for a light" thing and even though it's a bar trick as old as bar tricks and matchbooks, it gets compliments, which is part of the reason that I needed the smoke. Icing on the cake and all that. So Jake goes to snap and the match head ignites and separates from the match itself and goes flying. While on fire. At me. The flaming match head hits me right in the goddamn face. Here's a picture to show where. Disclaimer: I do not look like Clive.
That red circle is where the FUCKING BALL OF FIRE hit me. I slapped myself in the face, yelled "OH SHIT!!!" and then it fell down to MY FUCKING CROTCH where it landed and kept burning. Needless to say, I took immediate action in the only way I knew how: I poured a little beer on my crotch. In my drunk-hazed mind, this was a good idea. Of course, everyone laughs. Jake falls off his stool. Then, the crowd disperses.
Since I killed his prospects by almost losing an eye and then making it look like I pissed myself, we decide that now would be a good time to head down to the Shantytown. We drunk-zombie-walk/shamble down the street about five blocks and find this little dingy hole-in-the-wall place. Inside it's small and there's a Smiths song on. I'm happy. Robert is seated near the door of the joint and he's talking with two girls, one of whom immediately seizes me and says "You and me, dance. NOW." There's no room to dance, but she wants to get away from Robert, so we dance to "Panic" and she tells me how much she loves the Smiths while Jake orders two of the biggest Guinness they have, all on Robert. Afte the song is over, she takes Jake and I outside. Robert stays in to talk to the other girl at the bar. Poor gal. Once outside, we realize that this is why they call the place Shantytown. There's little shelters in the dirtfloor backyard area, all of them have a fire going and there's a girl sitting alone in one of them. Our companion (my dance partner) takes us to this shelter, explains why she took so long ("He just wouldn't shut up!") and then introduces us. My dance partner is by far the better looking of the two, and since my sleeping arrangements are already set in stone, Jake chats her up. Her friend, the lone girl in the shelter is not an attractive gal, but we talk, and I feign interest.
Some beer and talking later, Robert joins us, says he's leaving. I go inside to use the facilities and when i come back, the girl that I was chatting up is looking at me like I ran over her dog. Jake gets up, leaves with my dance partner. I say goodbye and sit down. The gal I was talking to says to me, "So you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend." Jake appears by my elbow. He was going to give me my lighter back, and he heard this. He looks at Robert, points, says "Nice fucking cockblock, asshole." Now it gets ugly. Robert bows out awkwardly, shape-shifts towards the door. I'm getting ready to roll myself and the girl says "It's really a shame. I really wanted to go out some time." I say "What? You thought I wanted something long-term? Psh." I turn to leave with Jake. She calls after me, "Tell your girlfriend I say hi!" I open the door, turn my head, look back over my shoulder across the patio and deliver:
"I would if I could remember your name."
In I go.
I go back to The Pearl, dance off some booze for about an hour, set my phone alarm, sleep in their parking lot for another two hours, then wake up, drive home and crash in my bed.
Who is Thomas Hollorand? He's that man inside of all of us that says things like "I would if I could remember your name." He's the guy who takes the strippers home from the club afte their shifts are over. He's more fucked up than Tyler Durden and he lives in all of us. He is schadenfreude personified, and last night I became him for an instant.
And it felt good.
(CW) OP out.
[size=-1]how sweet life would be[/size]
So I arrive at the bar in question, The Pearl. It's a pretty cool joint; a little indie rock bar that serves the beer I like and has bartenders that are real cool cats. I was meeting some folks from work there and I took one for the team by being the first one there so we could grab the lone table. I look over to the door and in walks a man that I hadn't seen in an age, my friend(?) Robert. He sees me, I see him, and he weeble-wobbles over, not because he was intoxicated but because he's a big fat fuck; at least 350 lbs. For background purposes so you can identify with this member of my merry band of misfits, Robert is that guy. As in "don't be that guy." He's the one that talks constantly and tells jokes that aren't funny and are borderline offensive. If you're familiar with the material then I would say that he's a clone of David Brent, just American and with no goatee or authority over anyone. However, Robert does have a job that pays well and is steady so he has money and he uses this money to buy beer. For everyone. All of a sudden, this fat cockjockey has just become my new best friend.
We sit at the table and shoot the shit for about a half an hour, me listening just enough to keep the beer flowing from Robert's pocket, my eyes constantly scanning the portal through which my salvation will appear. If I can get one more person I know at this table I can talk with them, make fun of Robert and still have a source of free beer. And in that door walks said salvation.
Jake is one of my best friends and his arrival was just what I needed. He has a quick wit and very acerbic humor. When we get together, we feed off of each other and evicserate assholes like Robert. Fortunately, Robert's the type of guy who loves attention, even if it's the type that tears him a new one. So far, no one from work has shown up and Jake gets us up off our asses and drags us outside. On the way out, I request a Smiths song from the DJ.
Outside the temperature is cool and there's a table with some barstools, so we snag it and drink beer and chew through about a pack of cigarettes. After Robert had had enough of our constant humiliation, he said that he was leaving and going down the road to the Shantytown Pub, someplace I'd never been. We told him that we'd meet him down there, both Jake and I understanding that this was our ticket to a fun time. No Robert, and plenty of moody indie chicks that hate Daddy. Robert then dropped the bombshell on us, and I quote: "If you show up, you're drinking whatever you want and it's on me." He left, and we were going to follow him in a bit if Jake's woman search didn't pan out. I was pulling wingman duty, due to me having a girlfriend and all. And a kid on the way.
So Robert leaves, Jake and I talk to girls, and we get a little crowd going. There's some guys, some gals, and we're having a good time telling people our made-up childhood. I need a cigarette, so I get one and Jake goes to light me up. He's using a matchbook that he got from the bar, and he does this "fold the match over and snap your fingers for a light" thing and even though it's a bar trick as old as bar tricks and matchbooks, it gets compliments, which is part of the reason that I needed the smoke. Icing on the cake and all that. So Jake goes to snap and the match head ignites and separates from the match itself and goes flying. While on fire. At me. The flaming match head hits me right in the goddamn face. Here's a picture to show where. Disclaimer: I do not look like Clive.
That red circle is where the FUCKING BALL OF FIRE hit me. I slapped myself in the face, yelled "OH SHIT!!!" and then it fell down to MY FUCKING CROTCH where it landed and kept burning. Needless to say, I took immediate action in the only way I knew how: I poured a little beer on my crotch. In my drunk-hazed mind, this was a good idea. Of course, everyone laughs. Jake falls off his stool. Then, the crowd disperses.
Since I killed his prospects by almost losing an eye and then making it look like I pissed myself, we decide that now would be a good time to head down to the Shantytown. We drunk-zombie-walk/shamble down the street about five blocks and find this little dingy hole-in-the-wall place. Inside it's small and there's a Smiths song on. I'm happy. Robert is seated near the door of the joint and he's talking with two girls, one of whom immediately seizes me and says "You and me, dance. NOW." There's no room to dance, but she wants to get away from Robert, so we dance to "Panic" and she tells me how much she loves the Smiths while Jake orders two of the biggest Guinness they have, all on Robert. Afte the song is over, she takes Jake and I outside. Robert stays in to talk to the other girl at the bar. Poor gal. Once outside, we realize that this is why they call the place Shantytown. There's little shelters in the dirtfloor backyard area, all of them have a fire going and there's a girl sitting alone in one of them. Our companion (my dance partner) takes us to this shelter, explains why she took so long ("He just wouldn't shut up!") and then introduces us. My dance partner is by far the better looking of the two, and since my sleeping arrangements are already set in stone, Jake chats her up. Her friend, the lone girl in the shelter is not an attractive gal, but we talk, and I feign interest.
Some beer and talking later, Robert joins us, says he's leaving. I go inside to use the facilities and when i come back, the girl that I was chatting up is looking at me like I ran over her dog. Jake gets up, leaves with my dance partner. I say goodbye and sit down. The gal I was talking to says to me, "So you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend." Jake appears by my elbow. He was going to give me my lighter back, and he heard this. He looks at Robert, points, says "Nice fucking cockblock, asshole." Now it gets ugly. Robert bows out awkwardly, shape-shifts towards the door. I'm getting ready to roll myself and the girl says "It's really a shame. I really wanted to go out some time." I say "What? You thought I wanted something long-term? Psh." I turn to leave with Jake. She calls after me, "Tell your girlfriend I say hi!" I open the door, turn my head, look back over my shoulder across the patio and deliver:
"I would if I could remember your name."
In I go.
I go back to The Pearl, dance off some booze for about an hour, set my phone alarm, sleep in their parking lot for another two hours, then wake up, drive home and crash in my bed.
Who is Thomas Hollorand? He's that man inside of all of us that says things like "I would if I could remember your name." He's the guy who takes the strippers home from the club afte their shifts are over. He's more fucked up than Tyler Durden and he lives in all of us. He is schadenfreude personified, and last night I became him for an instant.
And it felt good.
(CW) OP out.
[size=-1]how sweet life would be[/size]
