Alright, so, funny story. Gather ’round children, it’s story time. Everyone put on your quiet faces! It’s listening time…
Suzie, don’t pick your nose.
Anyway…
So, Friday night, I’m sitting up at IHOP (GASP! IHOP? You’re never there!) working on crap and listening to music, generally minding my own damn business.
It’s about 2:30 A.M., and this week is a special one in the city where I live. Special, of course, in the short school bus kind of way.
You see, a local country bar here has an annual event called, and I’m not making this up… The Testical Festival.
*Waits for that to sink in.*
Before you start to get any of your own ideas of what this is, allow me to explain.
Apparently, in this area of the country, there’s something about Calf Fries. No, these aren’t deep fried potatoes cut in strips. But they are deep fried… and they are part of a Calf. Basically, some people in this area of the country think that eating deep fried bull testicles is considered good, let alone rational or even intelligent. I’ve lived in Oklahoma all my life, and I will never understand this.
So, this local country/western/and other associated… bull (no pun intended) bar has an annual event centered around the preparation, serving, and eating of deep fried bull’s nuts. And it’s one of the most popular events in the city.
It lasts an entire week long.
Every night of this event, this bar serves bull balls and, one would assume, gallons of beer and other practically flammable alcoholic beverages to each individual who eats these things. The irony of the fact that to prevent oneself from yakking on these things one would have to drink an utterly insane amount of licquor that is going to make you yak, is not lost on me.
I don’t know how it’s done in other areas of the country, but here, when the bars close down at 2:00 A.M., people usually go to an all-night restuarant of some particular flavor to carbo-load in last-minute preparation for the hazy and pain filled morning they will be having in a few short, delusional hours.
And IHOP is one of those restuarants.
About 1:30 on Friday, my hangout was invaded with such a colorful cross-section of the local population, most of which probably couldn’t even see color at that point.
I was minding my own business, and had cranked up the volume on the techno music on my laptop, to drown the drunken dregs of society completely out.
And yet, they still seem to find me.
I’m convinced that alcohol is the equivalent of liquid de-evolution. The fact that most of these people who were imbibing great quantities of it were only a step or two away from their simian heritage to begin with does not positively contribute to the situation.
Anyway, up at IHOP. I’d been up there for a good long while, minding my own business, as it steadily began to get crazier. Right in the middle of a great techno song (Gigi Lav vs. Ben DJ - Forever Friends, just FYI), some random guy begins sauntering up to my table. I notice him out of the corner of my vision, but don’t think much of it. After all, I’m deep in my hardcore vibes.
Until he slides into the seat next to me and pulls the headphones off my left ear.
Now, let me diverge from my story for a moment (which I still haven’t really gotten to yet, I know; if you’re bored with my explanations, you can probably skip this). Unless someone knows me, and has permission at least in my own mind, I don’t usually like for anyone to touch me. Let alone, slide up nice and close and start pawing my ear. Male or female, it doesn’t make a difference, unless I know you. Otherwise, it’s uncomfortable. This is that “common courtesy” thing I’ve been talking about.
Obviously, common courtesy is not a trait that intoxicants leave in the forefront of most people’s minds.
This guy obviously didn’t have any at that point in time. The first words out of his mouth, prefaced only with a lukewarm cloud of alcohol fumes, were “Do you like Vivaldi?”
Now, I happen to consider myself a fan of classical music. As I’ve stated before, my musical tastes are rather eclectic, and classical is definitely something that I will partake in. I happen to love Vivaldi.
“Uhhh, yeah…” I utter, utterly confused as to where this conversation is headed. What an odd way to start off a conversation, I ponder.
“What’s your favorite work by him?”
“Probably the Four Seasons suite.”
The conversation tended downhill from there.
“Are you a doctor?” He asks, innocuosly.
Now, from here, let me pause. Just to clarify the situation, and impress upon you the nearly unbelievably bottomless stupidity of this question, allow me to reiterate. I’m up at IHOP on a Friday night, working on a laptop, in shorts and a dorky black T-shirt (no, I’m not dressed to kill; I’m dressed completely for comfort). Ultimately, I look almost, but not quite, entirely unlike a doctor.
And my response to such a query?
“Uhhhh, no…”
“Oh. Well where do you work?”
“The university.”
“Are you a student?”
“I’m taking a few classes?”
“But you work for them?”
Apparently, he could not grasp the possibility that someone could both have a job at a University and take classes… from the same University!. And yet he didn’t have a problem believing that I was a doctor. As usual, I say Brilliant!
“Well, are you gay?”
Hmmmm. Well, to be perfectly honest, this wasn’t completely surprising. After all, it’s rare that a random guy comes up to me, starts touching me, and then asking me inane questions is straight. Actually, it’s rare that anybody, male or female, comes up to me and starts touching me, and then asking me inane questions, straight or gay.
Actually, it’s rare that anybody, especially female, comes up to me and starts touching me.
Actually, it’s rare that a female comes up to me.
No, I’m not bitter, not bitter at all.
Meanwhile, back at the farm.
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, damn. Well, thanks anyway.”
And now, I ask you, my ubiqutous reader, the question of the evening. What the hell do you say to that?! I went over a few phrases in my mind…
“Uhhh, sorry, wish I could help you?”
“No problem!”
“Good luck elsewhere!”
…
So, I sat in stunned silence for a moment, contemplating these events, and retreating back into my bosstones. And I realize, that, while I’m not gay, I am flattered. I mean, it’s not everyday that somebody finds me interesting enough to approach me, as I’m usually pretty withdrawn until someone actually starts speaking to me, so I can be difficult to approach.
And then… it hits me. The thought of the evening, the one thing that really just seals the entire situation for me, and forces me to chalk it up to karma, or poetic justice, or one of any a thousand other cosmic circumstances…
Why won’t women do that to me?!?
I mean, what the fuck?! What the fucking fuck fuck?
And with that, I left IHOP for greener pastures and far less average blood alcohol content per person.
As the comedian Bill Engval said, “As a comedian… You don’t have to make it up, you just have to write it down when it happens.”
You can’t make this stuff up, people.
Until next time.
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