Wednesday, November 29, 2006

So I was helping the lovable old owner / St. Nick doppelganger of my favorite townie bar celebrate his 60th birthday...

... by drinking cheap mugs of tap beer and listening to the locals serenade* me with such karaoke classics as "Oops! I Did it Again" when I thought to myself, "Barflies. Why haven't you griped about barflies in that unprofitable blog of yours?"

* For the purposes of this sentence, please read 'serenade' as 'launch an unprompted aural offensive upon.'

"Well," I slurred internally, "because I've had shit to do, idiot." Yes, I called myself an idiot. I see no reason to exclude yours truly from my rampant, unchecked misanthropy.

So, in order to shut myself up, and, more importantly, because I really don't have any other viable ideas at the moment, here's a list of the stereotypical stool jockeys you're bound to run into at your local hangout, dive, pub, tavern, saloon, speakeasy, old man's bar, sports bar, piano bar, harpsicord bar, discotheque, gay bar, lesbian bar, bisexual bar, metrosexual bar (or "club"), microbrewery, macrosudsery, AA meeting, or Wal-Greens throat syrup aisle.

DAKOTA: Wait, shouldn't you be working on your playwriting?

Would you people give me a fucking break, already?


> Where you'll find him: Dive bar; old man's bar; Klan mixer

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: The middle of the bar, with several empty stools to either side of him.

> Appearance: Male; whiter than Hitler; middle-aged to elderly; in the worst shape of his life.

> What he's doing there: Smoking heavily; drinking the cheapest tap beer available; watching Nascar or the "Blue Collar Comedy Tour"; talking loudly to no one and everyone; cursing the Mexicans for trying to take his job; skipping work.

> Immediate goal: To find a friend. A friend with whom he can share his grand ideas and shattered dreams, his hopes and sorrows, the myriad of joys that life can offer, and the pain of loss and regret it invariably brings...

... oh, and also a fellow white man to shift uncomfortably while he unleashes a barrage of derogatory ethnic slurs and racial profiling. And seeing as how you're white...

> Long-term goal: To get stabbed in the throat upon leaving the bar when it turns out the "wetbacks" he's been riding all night can, in fact, "speak American, for Crissakes!"


> Where you'll find her: Anywhere alcohol and penises come together in a glorious union.

> Her precise location in the drinking establishment: Hanging heavily on you, her horseface resting on your shoulder as her too-much mascara smears itself all over your new shirt.

> Appearance: Tight, slutty shirt; tight, slutty skirt; makeup, makeup, makeup!; prissy accessories (preferably pink); mammoth mammary glands; a face so monstrous it would force even Medusa to politely excuse herself from the room.

> What she's doing there: Swaying to a death metal song; headbanging to a ballad; giggling; pointing at guys; making catty comments about pretty girls; thrusting her breats in your face; avoiding paying for her own drinks; firmly burying the last remnants of her self-respect.

> Immediate goal: To find a boy -- any boy -- to tell her she's pretty and shower her with affection, attention, and long island iced teas. Her chances of finding just such a sap increase exponentially as the night wears on and the vision of the male populace wears down.

> Long-term goal: To leave your apartment at 7:30 tomorrow morning in her strappy heels and tube top after an uncomfortable "I'll call you" conversation.


> Where you'll find him: Clubs; college bars; frat parties; holding cells

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: Grinding on something with a vagina or, later in the evening, perhaps a table leg.

> Appearance: Abercrombie & Fitch, Tommy Hilfiger, Eddie Bauer, Ralph Lauren, whatever -- as long as it's pink; baseball cap or visor, preferably facing the incorrect way; carefully-cultivated five o'clock shadow; smug look of unsubstantiated superiority

> What he's doing there: Standing around with several of his clones; mocking those wearing less pink than he is; casing the joint for girls with skirts ending just below their bikini zones; rationing his Roofies; overcompensating for something.

> Immediate goal: To bang the ugly slutty girl.

> Long-term goal: To ask daddy's high-priced attorney friend to lead the case for the defense.


> Where you'll find him: Old man's bar; dive bar; nursing home rec room; the bus at bar time; corner of 8th and Juniper.

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: Right next to you. Goddamnit.

> Appearance: Scruffy; leathery; pungent; flea-conducive; older than the pines; seems to have just been released from the drunk tank, really; has an affinity for army-surplus jackets.

> What he's doing there: Talking to you; scratching parts of himself while talking to you; shoveling beer nuts into his maw while talking to you; shooting cheap whiskey while talking to you; staring creepily at that young blonde chick across from him while talking to you; breathing on you while talking to you; following you into the bathroom to talk to you.

> Immediate goal: To tell you why things were so much better back in his day, by gum!

> Long-term goal: See above.


> Where you'll find him/her: Anywhere alcohol can be found after 12:30 am.

> His/her precise location in the drinking establishment: Leaning over the bar slurring invectives at the napkin holder opposite him/her.

> Appearance: Any age, any gender, any race, any creed. Sure is ugly, though.

> What he/she's doing there: Trying to tell you something, dammit!; bumming a smoke; lighting the wrong end of the bummed smoke; dropping the lit bummed smoke on your lap; spilling his drink; spilling your drink; knocking over the beer nuts; falling off his stool; bumping into the biggest, meanest guy in the place; cussing out the biggest, meanest guy in the place; getting his ass kicked by the biggest, meanest guy in the place.

> Immediate goal: To make sure you know this: "I was once ... not in my house, I tell him! ... always gotta be up so goddamn early ... and I says, "The Macedonians? Fuck you!"... oop, dropped that ... John Deere green ... what did -- didjou say? Oh, I was talking? Wh-What did I say? ... and that's why I don't raise Angora rabbits anymore ... why's the -- the thing up there all ... I miss Crystal Pepsi ... Mike? Are you Mike? ... free-trade agreement ... he spelled it with one 'A' ...

> Long-term goal: He's trying to tell you, dammit!

6.) NAPOLEON, v.2

> Where you'll find him: Wherever those accursed Brobdignagians congregate, mocking him with their mighty, unattainable height.

> His precise location in the drinking establishment: About waist-level.

> Appearance: Short; diminutive; miniscule; itty-bitty; wee; li'l; teacup-size; probably scowling.

> What he's doing there: Glaring at tall people; insulting tall people; picking fights with tall people; shoulder-blocking tall people; rubbing his injured shoulder after shoulder-blocking tall people; avoiding being stepped on by tall people; using a baby seat to reach the bar; drinking from a glass too large for his teeny hands; looking up.

> Immediate goal: To kick your ass, motherfucker!

> Long-term goal: Crying himself to sleep with tiny, tiny tears.

Yes, yes, I know there are dozens more. Loosen your girdles, ladies, I don't want to hear your stupid suggestions.

Well, the holidays -- secular and non -- are upon us, so rest assured that T.C.I. will have plenty to rant about in the coming weeks.

I'll just be too lazy to write it down, is all.

In closing, Santa Claus does, in fact, operate my local bar of choice.


> Our pale blue scrubs have been retired in favor of starchy new purple ones. Or "wine," as the label maintains. Any color named after something containing alcohol is my favorite color. I'm waiting anxiously for my "rum-flavored puke" shoes to come in.

> In addition to rows after rows of mercury-riddled zebrafish and stupidly-named fathead minnows, our lab is now also home to several Xenopus frogs (they look like fat, squat, entirely aquatic versions of Kermit, but are less likely to stage musical numbers or fuck pigs), a lonely, swivel-eyed puffer fish (who supposedly puffs up when disturbed, but apparently being jabbed at by a cheap Bic pen occurs regularly in his natural habitat, so no luck yet), and a pair of kick-ass crayfish that love to munch on frog brittle (brittle made for frogs, not of them).

The crayfish were intended as food for the refuses-to-puffer fish. However, they are too large and aggressive to serve as dinner (or "supper" to you silly Brits) for the puny fellow, so now they've been slipped into Larry the lungfish's tank. Lungfish are like a cross between a chubby eel and a salamander with tentacles instead of feet. They can grow to six feet in length (this one hasn't yet, but he's a-tryin'), have an oddly content, doglike expression on their faces, let you pet them without kicking up a fuss (to answer your question: slimy, rubbery), and apparently hold the key to curing Alzheimer's.

They also evidently like to eat crayfish one piece at a time, resulting in a slow, cruel, painful, hideous death by gradual dismemberment.

My job makes me sad.

> I recently received a raise. Which was promptly negated by a just as recently-implemented retirement fund deduction.

My job makes me sad.

> A bright, new school year has brought with it a bright, new, perkily-breasted influx of gorgeous Maxim covergirls. I'm telling you, if I'd have known science chicks could be so hot, I'd have stuck with zoology instead of choosing a lifetime in the theatre with women suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorders (er, present company excluded, you understand, Behnnie Quietly).

In fact, in his search for an assistant, one of our investigators has recently acquired a voluptuous Italian specimen with veeery impressive, er, "credentials."

I love my job.

Effective 11/30/06: Happy 26th or 27th Birthday to my brother Thom(as).

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

Yes, I've met most of the ones you talk about at my brother-in-law's bar. The weird thing is I'm related to most of them one way or another.

And that makes me sad.

Sgt Mellors

8:16 AM  
Blogger Dakota said...

Was... was that a shout out to me? Was it intentional? Did it give me chills?

The answer to all of these questions: maybe.

9:08 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Enjoy your brief but glorious brush with fame, my friend.

12:06 PM  
Blogger Quietly said...

you don't have to lie. i know you think i'm a narcissist.

and what about the men in these labs? any of them at all remotely good lookin' (er, present company excluded, you understand, W.D.)? could a girl find someone ogle-worthy in a place like that? and would they ogle back even at the non Maxim covergirl types? i mean- i could handle fish. i bet.

3:33 AM  
Blogger Chuckles O'Plenty said...

Heh heh. Sorry to be the bearer of obvious news, Quietly, but as I mockingly pointed out to my female co-worker Grubs: although science chicks are astonishingly bend-overable, science guys tend to fit every single nerdy stereotype society has allotted them.

So, no, I'm the only mildly ogle-worthy guy whose, er, "fish" you'd care to "handle."

The frogs would be able to ogle any non-Maxim covergirl types, however. Of course, they ogle *everyone...*

9:39 AM  

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