There are often times in a man’s life when he needs to go where everybody knows his name. It also helps when they have a personal relationship with a jockey in the fifth race. So this is where we stood, The Drizzle and Old No. 22. Burgeoning on the precipice of a new height of degenerate gambling.
Very disappointing St. Paddy’s Day. First of all, a couple of rain drops and no one shows up. I have to say it was great for us because no one showed up to our local, and we had it all to ourselves…and we had a great time. Second of all, you had to make up for your yuppy-douche-bagness on the real date (That would be the 17th of March) by making yourselves totally obnoxious. Bumping and pushing your way to the bar, asking my skinny friend to push over on his f%&*ing bar stool because you needed a seat. (I can’t make this shit up.)
I know you just moved to South Boston and you find that the night life is pretty good. However, when you step up to the bar please, please don’t wave your money in my bartender’s face, because they hate that. When I’m eating my steak tips and mashed don’t elbow me in the back. Say, “Excuse me.” We will let you order your drink(s), then back the f^#* off.
Alcoholics Anonymous chicks are the ultimate amnesiacs. Because once you go, you forget about all the things you did…and one of them is me. Give me that polite hello, but you forget that you blew me in the bathroom. And again, we meet at the bar and you pretend it didn’t happen. And then we end up in my bedroom. Now you’re checking my fridge out for post-bender beers. And I say, “Um…you have to go.”
Now we have a chance meeting in a bar and you’re drinking ice water and lemon, and I’m still drinking an ice cold drafty…and you totally ignore me…how’s the AA working out for you?