I’ve talked to you all before about Carol’s Pub. Let me tell you, that Carol is a drunken slutty whore! That may seem redundant, but seriously, she is. I so wish this place was not a few blocks from where I live. I know I wouldn’t go as often as I do if it was farther away. The problem is that when I normally get dropped off at my house, I can look left and see my place, or I can look right and see Carol’s sign beckoning me.
Why do I always look right????
There is absolutely NO reason I need to be out drinking till 5 a.m. There also is no reason I need to be dancing with the same 88-year-old man who is ALWAYS there. He’s always there doing his strange “twist’ dance with hands smelling of old man aftershave and embalming fluid. Every time I see him I think this will be our last meeting, as he’s about as likely to croak as I am to slip and fall.
Or then there’s my ‘ol buddy the Hispanic man (also always there) cloaked in a cowboy hat and boots who twirls me around like a dreidel. I can be having a relatively normal night UNTIL I make the decision to go to Carol’s Pub. I swear the air in that place causes an instant blackout.
It’s either the air or the mass amounts of cheap rum I am inhaling.
I hate Carol.
I also love her with all my being.
This past year I celebrated Cinco de Mayo at a friend’s house. All of the necessary makings of a Cinco de Mayo party were present: enchiladas, chips and salsa, Tecate, tequila and white people. It was great fun!
As the night wore on, only the steadfast partiers remained. It was around 2 a.m. that we decided to jump in a cab to hightail it to Carol’s Pub. Yee haaaaw!
As I often do, I became fast friends with strange, drunk people also currently mid-blackout. Insert catch phrases: “You’re awesome!” “I love you!” “You’re my new best friend!” “We need to hang out again soon!” “Sure, I’ll have your baby!” and my personal favorite, “No thanks, I don’t shoot dope no more.”
One of my new best friends was a gay man in his 50s. After several dances and vast amounts of compliments for yours truly, we got to the point in the night where he asked if he could touch my boobs.
I’m going to digress for a second here. I really don’t understand why most gay man love boobs. I mean, they definitely don’t like vaginas, so why boobs? I asked a gay friend of mine once who responded, “We’re still men! Boobs are so fun to play with!”
Hmm. I happen to think it has something to do with some sort of Oedipus Complex. Call me Sigmund.
Anyways, normally I would not let a strange person touch my jiggles (or bits). But it was 4 a.m., he seemed normal and I figured why not make his night? He expertly cupped by boobs, jiggled them around and, after a few seconds, managed to tear his eyes away from my chest to make eye contact with my face.
A few seconds later another man joined our conversation, stating he too was gay and friends with Old Man Gay and could he also feel my boobs? I asked my new best friend if they were friends, and he grinned and responded, “Yeah!” As I contemplated his request, Young Man Gay made a mad grab at my chest trying to get his mitts inside my shirt! “Hey!” I yelled at him, as I roughly shoved his hands away, “That’s enough!”
He snatched his hands away from me and grinned from ear to ear. “I’m not gay,” he proudly stated. “My wife’s sitting right over there.”
I looked at my former best friend, Old Man Gay, who shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said.
What a fucker! Just when you think you know your best friend (who you met at 3 a.m. and knew all of 30 minutes).
I also was quite disappointed that Mr. Married Man was already snatched up. Grabbing a random girl’s boobs while your unsuspecting wife sits a few feet away?
Moral of the Story:
Gay. Straight. Bi. Probably not a good idea to let strange men juggle your goodies. That will not garner the respect of anyone.
It just makes you look like a drunken whore.
I seriously stayed away from Carol’s for months after this incident.
Arriba, arriba, andele, arriba!! Yo quiero rum y coca cola.