Having had one too many multiple-night stands with that herpes-infested slut Carol, it was time to find a new late-night haunt. Although it is ONLY open until 3 a.m. on Saturdays, Richard’s in West Town is a pretty good mistress … I mean replacement.
Sidenote: The last time I was there, Rocky the bartender let us stay after the bar closed and smoke AT THE BAR. Old-school green ashtrays and all! Although I don’t smoke much anymore, it felt really good to be smoking inside a drinking establishment. Especially in the dead of winter.
Cough, cough. Really good. Cough. Who’s cool now?
Anyway, Richard’s is a long, but small bar and was filled with all sorts of people. The one thing these people all have in common, you ask? They’re drunk. I mean, I’m pretty sure they breathalize you to get INTO the bar.
0.12? Sorry, go have a few shots and then check back with us in twenty.
As we made our way down the “aisle,” we squeezed by various men in different stages of dance. You know you’ve hit the jackpot when a guy who looks like he could have been part of the Superfan SNL skit is doing choreography reminiscent of Flashdance. We are talking a pot-bellied, Blackhawk jersey-wearing, beard-growing man who is flailing his arms like a Go-Go dancer to Wham.
Call me. Call me now.
Thankfully, my friend and I saw two empty bar stools and eagerly claimed them. The jukebox was playing some fun pop hit from the 80s and my foot tapped in tune with the beat. As you might have guessed, my hand was curled tightly around my Captain and Diet, which was sweating ever so slightly.
Before we knew it, two young gents (and by gents I mean total douche bags) made a beeline for us. The one DB starts close-face talking with my friend. She has a boyfriend, so was not at all interested, which only seemed to egg him on more. He then stared into her eyes like he just came off the set of General Hospital and said, “I could get lost in your eyes.”
He then followed this up with the ever-popular, “Are you going to drink red or white when we go out to dinner?”
Thank God he did not say this to me. I gagged at the story when she told me about it a few minutes later.
Who in God’s name does this line work on??? Seriously?!
In the interim, his tall, stocky friend who had apparently drawn the short straw began to rub my lower back as if a Genie might pop out and grant him three wishes. As he does this, he starts talking very close to my ear in between intense eye contact.
People, I think he was trying to seduce me.
My drink is empty and I’m getting sick of the grope fest, so I tell him that I was going out to have a smoke with my friend. I did not, in fact, have a smoke, but who smokes anymore these days? I was just trying to escape him and figured he would stay inside. I would rather spend my time outside in the dead of winter than be inside being rubbed down by him.
But, because God seemingly hates me, DB#2 smiled and pulled out a beaten-up pack of smokes and said, “Let’s go!”
I did manage to glean a cigarette off of him. Score.
I then started to chat up the other people smoking outside. One thing I have to say about smokers is they are very united and most of the time super friendly. Team Cancer!!!!
The more I ignored Rico Suave, the more agitated he clearly became. He then violently burst out, “You could have had the chance to get to know me” <pausing for dramatic effect> “but NOW you never will.”
As he said this, he whipped his head away and sauntered back into the bar. If he had wagged his index finger in my face and said, “Talk to the hand, cause the face don’t understand,” I couldn’t have been any more pleased.
I made eyes with another smoker who had a five o’clock shadow, was wearing a big Bears jacket and faintly smelled of sausage. He had heard the outburst, and we both burst out laughing.
The funniest part of it all was that when my friend and I went back into the bar, two bitches had stolen our seats. We had coats on the stools and our drinks had coasters under them. Clearly those seats were taken, girls.
“Ummmm, excuse me, we were sitting here,” I said to the one girl who looked as though she had spent the better part of her life wrestling with the ugly stick.
She rolled her eyes at her friend and said snottily to me, “I didn’t see anyone sitting here.”
“Well your ass is dirtying up my coat there and my drink is waiting for a refill right there,” I pointed out. As I said this, I started to pull at the coat underneath her ugly ass, causing her to tilt sideways.
They eventually got up, allowing us to sit our asses back down and enjoy the drunken revelry around us. Several seconds later, the two Romeos began tag-teaming the stool thieves. Within a few minutes, they were “dancing” with these girls (AKA, rubbing their chubbies on them) and a few minutes later I saw them all leaving together.
SERIOUSLY?! Those cheeseballs had absolutely no game. How did they get those broads to go home with them after like five minutes?
I ceased to be amazed by the sluttyness.
I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with how I feel about cheese. We do not live in a Rom-Com. Even if I’m dying of cancer with only two days left to live and you are a single, good-looking doctor with absolutely no baggage who wants to donate your lung to me, telling me “I could get lost in your eyes” will only cause me to open them even wider in the hopes that you will actually GET LOST. (whisper – but still leave me your lung – whisper)
The only thing worse is throwing a hissy fit when some chick you give a cigarette too isn’t paying you any attention. If you think giving a girl a cigarette is going to get you laid, you should probably upgrade to at least a drink or 5.
That or downgrade to fat, ugly chicks who reek of desperation and believe that a guy wanting to have sex with you means he finds you attractive.
Spoiler alert: There are many guys out there who, especially when drunk, will fuck just about anything if desperate enough.
If some guy gives me a cigarette, I might give him a handy outside the bar. But that doesn’t make me a slut. It just makes me a great barterer.