508 Gastropub. After a hard day of shopping and playing miniature golf, all I needed was a simple cocktail to soothe my nerves from the stressful situation that was happening at the golf course; in front of me and behind me, there were children playing who had absolutely no respect for the sport of miniature golf. The kids were running from hole to hole and dropping their balls into water hazards. (That whole sentence totally just reminded me of the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college. No, not because I was a big ol' slut but because I was the manager at a Putt-Putt Golf.) By the time I was at the bar, the Blood Orange martini was calling my name.
The lovely bartender whipped it up very quickly and placed it before me. I worshipped its beauty and then snapped a picture of it because my cell phone gallery is a sad but meaningful testament to my everlasting love of cocktails.
And then three guys walked in and sat right next to me. They were loud, not funny, loud, pretentious, loud and annoying. The one in the middle wore his sunglasses backwards in the very same manner that The King of all Tools, Guy Fieri does. I think when you go to Douchebag University, that must be the the first thing they teach you. I have never seen anyone but card-carrying douchebags wear them that way. Tool #1 says to the bartender, "Hey, it's his birthday," pointing to Tool #3. Tool #2 was busy checking his Blackberry.
"Happy birthday," said the bartender. Maybe she meant it, but it was clear that these asswipes were not going to get anything for free just because one of them happened to be born. Save that trick for Hooters or Friendly's.
They ordered two glasses of wine and one Old-Fashioned. It seemed like Tool #3 had just watched the season finale of Mad Men and wanted to be like Don Draper. I studied the behavior and dress of the three guys trying to pinpoint what it was exactly that made them seem so all-encompassing douchey. Maybe it was the Live Strong bracelet one was wearing or maybe it was the way one of them kept laughing way too loud at his own jokes and then looking around to see if anyone else thought he was funny as he thought he was.
They went on to order three dozen oysters. Knowing that oysters are an aphrodisiac, I imagined them sucking them down along with way too much to drink and then going back to one of their apartments to "watch a game" and then blaming the oysters and alcohol on the accidental blow jobs that happened.
Through the course of their conversation, I learned that at least one was a hedge fund manager. I don't know what that means exactly, but I am pretty sure it has something to do with removing errant hedgehogs from vaginas. Or maybe that's a Christopher Durang play. He mentioned that his company wants him to move to Houston and he is seriously considering it. "They'd pay me more, it's 30% cheaper to live there and they have this amazing place called Treasures." I Googled Treasures and it's precisely what I figured it would be; a tacky upscale men's entertainment club.
"Please move to Houston," I thought. "Right now. Or at least right after you convince your buddy that your penis would never ever fit into his asshole, but you'll prove it if he wants you to. And if it does fit, then you're alright with being wrong."
They continued talking too loudly and getting on my nerves. I finished up my second martini and polished off the onion rings and paid my check. I walked up to the bartender and told her that I write this stupid blog. She was sufficiently unimpressed but I told her that I would be writing a story about the three guys at the end of the bar if she'd like to check it out. I doubt she will. They probably tipped her well, because she was very pretty. They would have tipped her more though if she worked at Treasures.
Farewell, Douchebags. Thanks for the story and thank you for letting me take your picture even though I didn't ask your permission.
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