Bar None Tales

To the girl in my bar who looks like Winona Ryder circa ’94 (e.g., _Reality Bites_): you were so damn cute until I started talking with you. I could not care less that you think about college football 24/7. Really, even though many guys wet dream (intransitive verb: Bourbon Apocalypse Literary-Blog Dictionary) about women who like sports, the cruel reality is that such romantic gender-bending cronyism revolts any integrated man. However, you know how to articulate those hips-in-motion/seduction, and you are in the honors college at your university. Next time: be more interesting and then, and only then, will I grant you the honor of my attention.

Also, to the sweet (and hot-to-trot) gal who, while in the presence of her boyfriend, told me that she would be all over me if she did not have a boyfriend: thanks, Sugar Tits. You know, by calling me an “asshole” because I will not follow you to another bar and doing so in front of other women (and your chum of a boyfriend), you only increase my “market value,” especially as you promised to hang onto my arm the entire evening. Thanks again. Own up to the fact that you adore me more than you do your boyfriend and dump him. Or: I take that back: do not dump him–just admit this to me. (By the way, you, as a woman, were made/evolved to be seduced. Careful, or I will do just that…)

Really, I do not know why I still go out on Friday (or those other non-Friday) nights to the bar. I started off the evening with two of my favorite things: a nap and a good novel–Evelyn Waugh’s wickedly witty Decline and Fall.  Perhaps I should have just stayed in bed and read away the evening, for expecting to find wit in an attractive woman leads only to despair and pitiable blog entries.

About Bourbon Apocalypse: A Whiskey Son of Sorrow

"If you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing." ~ Kingsley Amis
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