Wed May 14, 2003 at 06:23:31 PM EST
muchagecko told me that we at K5 have no lives. If so, I must be a loser among losers. Laugh at me, and raise your chin in superiority! “Ha!” you may now proclaim, “compared to mcgrew I'm not a loser! Look out world!”
Yes, I struck out again. This was the most spectacular strikeout yet. I met a biker chick, took her home... and didn't even get to first base.
The worst part is, it didn't even bother me!
Ladies, tell me how a skinny nerd could get in your undies if he met you in a bar. Guys, tell me what works for you. Read on for a sad tale of geeky losering.
Yesterday morning when the alarm clock went off I got out of bed, and fell down. I got up, and fell down again. The over the counter sinus pill plus Paxil combination had me so loaded I couldn't even walk. I doubt I ever got this stoned on purpose back in my addle-brained drug-soaked youth. I got off the floor a second time and banged on my daughter's door, and told her she had to get up NOW, because I was going back to bed. I would never have made it down the stairs alive.
Later on in the afternoon, coffeed up and not walking too unsteadily, the doorbell rang. 2:30? Probably a Jehovah's Witness, or a deputy serving a summons, or someone wanting to cut my grass or something. I was busy typing a thank you note to the K5 denizens anyway. Oh, I forgot to thank Ascii Art for the portrait. Looks just like me when I take off my glasses. And cut my hair. And he or she didn't put a mustache on me. Other than that it's “teh spitting image” of me.
The damned door opened. Daughter must have gotten off school early. “Anybody home?”
Damn. Evil-X. But she was here to offer me a ride to the store, and I was short of groceries. Of course there was a catch – she was broke and almost out of cigarettes and wanted five bucks for “gas money”, even though insurance on the damned PT comes out of my paycheck. This was actually not the curse her arrival usually is, because I needed a ride, and she's the antidote to Paxil, being the most negative individual you will ever have the extreme fortune of never meeting. At least I got to see my older daughter, who's living with Evil-X now.
Later in the evening, after Dopey Smurfing K5; Not really dopey smurfing, that's when you keep hitting the “refresh” button trying to bring a server down with your 300 baud modem. This “dopey smurf” was typing into one person's diary while five more Mozilla tabs were loading. On dialup. I guess this is a Dopey Steve Smurf. The real Dopey Smurf's name is “Marko” and he was a med student when I knew him. He's a Canadian medical doctor now, I think.
Anyway, after reading all the K5 diaries and getting bored, eating steak strips and potato chips, I decided to walk down to Duff's Pub and get one of their $3.00 pitchers of beer. Yeah, the place you saw in The Simpsons, this is Springfield. The real “one”. Groening got a lot of stuff wrong, like, Duffy is fat, not skinny. And there is no “Capital City”; Springfield is the capital city. And only a few of the denizens are bug-eyed. And a lot of other, non-Groening cartoon characters live here, too. Olive Oyle, for example, only the real Olive is flatter chested than Popeye's Olive. Popeye lives here too, but as far as I know Olive isn't with Popeye, Bluto, OR Brutus, all of whom also live here. Betty Boop lives here, too, only the Springfield Betty's head is bigger.
Now you all think I'm full of shit. But I'm not. This is a weird place full of weird people.
But I digress. Again. Sorry.
I walked down to Duff's for a cheap pitcher, figuring I might as well be bored there as at home. I held no fantasies of picking up any women; there seldom are any women in there, and when there are they're mostly old and fat. The back door is closest to my house, and it looked like the bar was full. Almost.
There were two empty stools at the other end of the bar, next to a larger but curvaceous, nervous young woman with a pretty face in jeans and a T shirt, who was nursing a Budweiser. I sat down next to her. She was talking to the highly tattooed bartender, who was trying to tend bar without ignoring her. I asked for a three dollar pitcher of Busch. “Only two bucks tonight.”
“Cool!” I exclaimed. The young chick looked at her $2.50 bottle, and the old guy to my left looked at his, both in amazement. Barkeep took my five and gave me three back, I put one on his side of the bar and started talking to the large but pretty woman.
Now, when I woke up this morning my bullshit detector was sounding. I'm not sure why it didn't go off last night. Maybe It had beer in it or something. Or maybe she wasn't full of shit. Or maybe I'm just a clueless loser.
Seems she's a biker chick, owns two Harleys, her dad was a Hell's Angel, and her mom's in the hospital in Springfield. She drove her old T-bird all the way up from Carbondale, almost 200 miles south of here (rent Poor White Trash to become acquainted with that part of Illinois, and the college there). She's supposed to get 72 year old Mom out of the hospital, and she's supposed to be spending the night with “Sam”. Only, she's one digit short of Sam's full phone number. And she doesn't know his last name. And “man, I wish I had a big doobie,” she says.
I'm badly in need of a haircut, by the way. Hasn't been cut in months.
“Save some beer money for a motel room,” I suggest. “Not enough,” she says. And she left her credit cards at home. Mom's got one but she's old and poor and besides, Gypsy (her biker name) couldn't afford to pay her back. I told her I'd let her stay with me except that my daughter would explode (and besides, since the X is a slut, Daughter needs somebody to give a better example, but I didn't tell Bikerchick that). And Gypsy sure wishes she had a doobie.
So she's wishing this, and wishing that, and I'm listening to her life story and we're talking motorcycles. Tells me about her last bar fight, shows me her tattoo, tells me about her Tough Guy Competition trophy. She wishes she could get on her computer because the phone number's on AOL. She's sitting next to the bar phone, I suggest that with 3 of the last 4 digits in her hand, there are only 10 possibilities. Try 'em all, and if that doesn't work we can walk down to my house and she can use my PC.
“Walk? I have my car!” But, it's only 4 houses. “Walk?” Hmm, I'm starting to figure out why heavy people are heavy. Her perfume is getting stronger and arouses parts of my brain, but oddly, not the part that controls blood flow. I should have had a woodie by then. “You know where we could get a joint?” she asked. “Yeah,” I replied, “you want to drive all the way down to St. Louis and get one?”
So she tries all 10 combinations, I finish my little pitcher, and she finishes hers. We walk down to my house. She's 32 and has a 15 year old daughter. She had showed me the tattoo on her ankle, a guy's name. She remarks on what a BIG old house it is. “I love big old houses,” she says. “Is that your busted van in the street?” Yeah, I'm hoping a bus hits it. And she sure wishes she had some pot.
So we go in, sit down in the kitchen, and she gets on AOL IM (which is only installed because of Daughter). I get out two beers. She can't find anybody online that could tell her “Sam's” number.
So we go back to the bar, I ask Barkeep for another pitcher, he brings it and 2 glasses. She keeps talking about how drunk she's getting, and oddly, I don't feel drunk at all. And she outweighs me by at least 50 pounds.
Pitcher finished, she leaves with an older woman.
I walk home, and when I get there I realize that I am drunk. And I sure wish I could have gotten Bikerchick high. Maybe that's the secret, buy some pot and get 'em stoned.