Last night some friends and I went to The Happy Village. The Happy Village is great because it serves cheap beer, has an amazing patio, and is typically filled with apathetic hipsters who can’t be bothered to talk to you, so it serves as a safe haven from bad pickup lines.
But of course, I managed to find the outlier. Or rather, he found me. He was wearing a sweatshirt and a backwards Cubs hat, and he looked like he’d been there for the better part of the month. He saw our group of five girls and instantly relocated next to us at the bar.
“’Scuze me ladies. You girls ever heard of the VWF bar?” he asked.
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s very far from here,” I said.
“Well, some buddies and I are gonna go there later for karaoke. If you want to come.” Then he stared straight at my chest, leaned in, and whispered, “Think it over… Just promise me you’ll think it over.”
“They can’t talk,” I said, and turned back to my friends. (I don’t exactly remember what we were debating but I think it was something really important, like why you should give a guy with a flip phone a chance.) Then, all of a sudden out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand raised in the air.
“’Scuze me. Escuze me ladies. I have a question,” he said.
“Proceed,” I answered.
“I am meeting some buddies later. We’re gonna play poker. You guys should come. And just so you know, I’m not a creep” he said, taking a step backwards to steady himself on his invisible boat. “There will be girls there.”
“I thought you were going to karaoke?” I said.
“I never said that.”
“Oh but you did.”
“You’re druuuunk,” he said with his eyes closed. “I’m going to play poker with some friends. There will be girls there though. I’m not a creep. Just think it over,” he said, this time swaying into the bar. “Think it over.”
In one quick move my friend stepped in front of him blocking him from the conversation. (She’s never worn a uniform in her life, but where bar sports are involved, she’s varsity.)
I leaned over to order another round, and saw his hand in the air again. He was waving it with the intensity of a second grader who had just pounded four Capri Suns and was in desperate need of the bathroom pass. This time he didn’t wait to be called on to ask his question:
“Where is the party headed ladies?” he asked. “You know, I’m going to have some people over later. I have a roof deck with a jacuzzi. You guys should come.” He said, again focusing his stare on my chest and swallowing hard. “If you don’t have bathing suits, that’s ok.”
“You know what?” I said. “While the thought of karaoke strip poker in a jacuzzi with you sounds totally amazing, my boobs and I have been thinking it over, and we think we’d rather poke our eyes out with a PBR, or go home on a 10-speed with a guy with a mustache. So, you should probably just stop talking now. You’re wasting your beer breath.”
He lifted his head, tried hard to focus his blank gaze in the general direction of my face, high-fived me and walked away.
And that Dear Disasters, is how you shake a Stage Five drunk.
Think it over.
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