A few years ago, I was hanging out at one of my favorite late night drinking dives, Carol’s Pub. I always have fun here and have yet to contract Leprosy or Hepatitis C. As much as I frequent this joint, really I’m rather lucky! I love it so much I would consider applying for a job, except I’m pretty sure having a lazy eye and/or a nasty meth habit is required.
So I’m outside of said establishment at 5 a.m. trying to decide which burrito house to hit with some friends. I should mention in this group of individuals I am one of two women.
Hanging around the area is an older gentleman with a dilapidated Schwinn bicycle, who although is quite obviously tipsy, is also pretty friendly and seems harmless.
He goes up to my friend and said: “Lucky girl, you get the pick of the litter!” As she looks around at the sausage fest around her, she explained, “Well, not really, my friend over there is some competition.”
He squinted at me warily and then told my friend, “That’s not a woman – that’s a man!” My friend then shouted over to me, “Hey Leigh, this guy thinks you’re a man!” Drunky then stumbled over in my direction, pointing and repeatedly saying: “That’s a man, that’s a man!”
I’m in quite a state of shock at this point, as I’ve been called a lot of colorful things before, but being mistaken for a man is not among them. Was it my manly hips that gave it away? Or perhaps it’s my 62 inches of pure muscle? No, I know – it must have been my bountiful bosom, which was highlighted in my wrap dress?
“Show me your penis!” he shouted into my face with his fist pumping into the air. My friends started chanting with him. Considering they had removed all signs of my shaft at birth, I’m in quite the conundrum. I decided to just giggle and chant along with them, hoping they would lose interest, which they did.
I did decide to forego the aforementioned burrito, though, to go home and trim my ‘stache.
Moral of the Story:
If you are too drunk to distinguish between whether someone is a man or a woman … seriously dude, what are you drinking and where can I get some???
This really is less of a moral, and more just a plea to help a lady out. If you are reading this, Drunky, I want some of the good stuff. Me and my big ‘ol balls will meet you at Carol’s Saturday night.