A Guide to Talking to Guys in DC Bars
So I’m doing the whole talking thing with these guys at a bar. They’re sitting down, drinking and saying cool things to each other like: “Yeah I totally agree.” I’m standing up next to them shaking my groove thing to some Spanish broad singing along to Michael Bolton’s “When a Man Loves a Woman.” Somehow during all this excitement, Guy 1 (the one who isn't Guy 2) gets in a huff because his appletini tips over like Humpty Dumpty. Before I asked him why he decided to leave his dick at home and order that drink, he starts antagonizing me like the baseball players used to do at my elementary school tetherball courts.
Guy 1 says, “That’s an ugly sweater.” In my mind, I think that’s an invalid response to losing your drink and your dignity. But my mouth says “No, that’s an ugly sweater,” while I’m pointing at his Kohl’s crewneck thermal. I know I’ve raised the stakes here, as my blood pressure rises to Rick Ross levels. But then again, I am bigger than him. Maybe it’s because I’m standing up.
Guy 1 brings the heat and says, “My mom got it for me.” A couple people behind me did that “Oh no he didn’t” thing and Wilmer Valderama appeared out of nowhere and said “Cash Money.” I’m fucking stifled at this point; he brought moms into the equation and no one wins in that situation. Even Mike Tyson loves his mother. Even Mike Tyson’s pigeons love Mike Tyson’s mother. If I want to make it out of here with my pride and quaff intact, I need to think of something quick.
In the heat of battle, I say, "Your mom has bad taste.” A hush comes over the crowd. It’s like I just announced I was Sandusky’s defense attorney or that Casey Anthony is a good-looking woman. I feel like Stanley Yelnats and that anything I say will bring my family’s curse upon my head. Just digging myself a grave right here, right now in this bar. At least all these people will show up to my funeral. They won’t have a choice really. But is anyone of them really qualified to lead it? Would I make it Jewey or not? Fuck, he’s looking at me. He probably has a knife or a toothpick or something.
This is it boys. This is war! I love that song, but it’s completely irrelevant to this situation. I trace the lines of his sallow face with my eyes. He probably doesn’t have a good home life. Maybe he doesn’t have a home. No, his mom bought him a crewneck from Kohl’s; let’s be reasonable here.
“My mom’s dead,” he says. Small violin concertos cascade on his tiny sad head and I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m not into dead moms. And I’m definitely not into talking about this guy’s dead mom with him. She still has bad taste regardless of whether she requires oxygen anymore. It’s not a question of consciousness, but one of aesthetics. Doesn’t he read Stitch for god’s sake? Does anyone read Stitch for god’s sake? Relax, these are rhetorical, we all know that no one reads Stitch.
I go out for a night on the town in my finest tube top and low rider Ed Hardy's, and this motherfucker is going to completely ruin it with his sob story. I'd had it up to here (motions to an area above head but below the ceiling). I stared indignantly at his sallowness and marched away to the bathroom with my drink in my hand and a dream in my heart. I took a long, hard look at my long hard self in the mirror and hated that this douche had ruined my night. Where does he get off? Where does anyone get off in this town, I haven’t seen a strip club for miles...?
My bro came to console me at the urine trough, patting me on the back with his friendly tagg. Shit, I meant Mitt. They’re all the fucking same who cares.
“Dude, why’d you get so upset back there?” he says to me as he destroys a urinal cake with his stream.
“I don’t know man. The whole mom shit got me down. It was a real drag,” I said, done peeing but on the second of many shakes.
“I know. We probably shouldn’t have killed his mom then,” he says, zipping up his leather skinnys.
We looked at each other for a long time after that, not in a “we’re about to make out way” but in a “something important happened here way.” There is a distinction. Just watch Dawson’s Creek, you shitbag.
And as I walked out of that bathroom back into life, back into the night once more, I said to myself: “Ohana means family.”