OK, so I promised you folks a story about a bar fight. No, it wasn't the diary where I talked about Delroy, as I didn't even go in that bar. I had no wish to have a second, third, or fourth asshole.
A woman I worked with moonlights as a bartender at a grimy little run down bar between redneckville and the ghetto, right next to the tracks. The tracks closer to the ghetto. It's not far from my house.
Now, it's a bit strange, because all the bars that line the track in this particular part of town are all redneck bars.
So I'm talking with the lady, and a young chump at the other end of the bar's cellphone goes off.
“Dirty deeds done dirt cheap!” it chimed gayly. I laughed out loud. I wondered to myself what this moron paid for that ring tone. I didn’t have to ask, as he was only too happy to tell everyone there how cool his ringtone was, that he paid $3.50 for it.
I laughed even louder. He took offense. “Well, I didn't mean to offend you...” I started. “Well you did!” he interrupted.
“But,” I continued, “I just think it's really stupid to pay good money for something that should be free. I bet you buy bottled water, don't you?”
Stupid fucking drunks. One of the few advantages of being an old fart is that you cannot lose a bar fight with a young man!
You may, or probably will, get your old ass kicked by the young punk, but when the cops show up guess who goes to jail? And that guarantees that you can win a civil suit, and watch him cry as his SUV is auctioned!
He didn't quite get the bottled water thing. “Huh?”
“I mean,” I said, “I have to work for my money.”
“So what do you do? Just what have you produced?” he retorted.
I told him. He was then offended by where I work. In my own unique way I explained just how he benefited from what I do. Then Larissa, the bartender, chimed in, glaring at him.
“I work there too, asshole,” she said.
Somehow things were smoothed over without the necessity of fisticuffs, to my amazement.
I showed up there a couple of days later, and the guy apologized up and down to me for his previous behavior.
So Friday, I decide to go to Boone’s Saloon, where there is supposed to be a retro rock band. I went, paid the three dollar cover, bought a single beer and was mostly bored. The band took a break and I left, and walked down to Dempsey's.
There was an excellent band. I got a beer, and couldn't find a chair for a while. I found one and sat at the back for a while, stood for a while. I noticed a fatass hassling people. Fucking drunks! A few left.
That let a barstool open and I sat down, and got a second beer. A few folks I knew walked past and said “hi”. I settled down to my beer.
Fatso, with a kind of “rassler” build, walks past and pushes my chair a full two feet. I ignore the cockbiter, trying hard to not let the Paxil withdrawal ruin my night.
Fifteen minutes later, it happens again. This time I give him my Clint Eastwood glare. He pretends not to notice that anything has happened. I get another beer.
He walks past again, this time just bumping me. “Say, Bud, could you scoot in a little?”
I give him “the look” again, with a bit of disgust thrown into it. “Sorry, Sparky, any closer and my dick'll be up against the bar.” I proceed to move the chair away from the bar and ignore him some more.
Twenty minutes later he's in a fight with some guy right behind me. Then two other guys try to restrain Fatass, and as I'm about to get up and “help” (like, beak fatass' kneecap or something so he calms down) a third guy gets knocked off his feet, hitting the bar with his head.
I tried to help the guy with the busted head, who didn't seem to think it was much of a problem.
Drunks. He certainly felt it the next morning, I'm sure.
The cops showed up by then, and Fatass was gone. The owner assured me a few days later I wouldn't be seeing that guy in his bar again.
And the moral of this story is, if you can't stand being laughed at, better leave when you see me enter the bar.