I hate bars.
Want to know why? Because they serve no purpose other than to give a roomful of 18- to 21-year-olds (fake IDs are wonderful) and other assorted low-life gadflies just another reason to drink to their liver’s discontent. And what do these behemoths of the bottle do when last call has been called and the barkeep is preparing to turn his stools on their heads, count his tips and kill the lights at
Cirrhosis Central?
They hit the streets and embark on a mission to do the one thing they know best: annoy the heck out of me for the rest of the evening and into the wee hours of the next morning.
And because I live in the Commons, I get the cream of the crap. I get the young “ladies” who seem to be 90 percent larynx and 10 percent helium. These fairly annoying creatures can often be readily identified by their chests, usually overflowing with beads, and by their brains, usually overflowing with air.
Usually spotted with these high-voiced harlots is a fairly common individual known in more worldly circles by the scientific name douchimus baggimus. I’m sure you know the type. These are the playa, pimp and mack-wannabes who have put holla-ing at a shortie at the top of their beer-goggled agendas.
And where does one find these twin-peaks of the best the world of academia has to offer? Why, right outside my window, of course.
There they stay, hooting, er, wooting and hollering at the tops of their weed-filled lungs until they either lose their voices, pass out, or head off to a bedroom, couch, floor, or lawn to cap off their evening with a rousing round of sloppy firsts with someone they have most likely never met and most likely will never see again after the next morning.
Of course, I’m sure you are wondering if I have ever actually been to a bar. The answer is yes. Four whole times. I have been to Rennie’s twice, and Good Times and Jameson’s once apiece. The most interesting feat I accomplished during those trips is making a man, who I believe had me mistaken for some sort of cactus, laugh until his tongue went numb. His poor wife.
Other than that, those four ventures into the great unknown left me confused, annoyed, befuddled and with a killer headache upon returning to my bed at the end of the evening.
If there is one good thing I can say about bars it is that they usually have the courtesy to employ some sort of bouncer or other security-type to help keep those unfit for bar life out and to get those who have already imbibed too much bar life out of the bar and away from the other, semi-sober patrons.
So while the average college student is whiling away his or her evening at a bar, drunk to the point where all motor skills have gotten up and left, scoping out the nearest hottie or hardbody hoping that all the planets align and they wind up in their own bed the next morning, I’ll be in mine, warm and comfortable, laughing at the poor, the unfortunate, the barfly.