Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Friday, November 19, 2004

I’m a fag and I just don’t care


According to the maniac at the bar on Sunday I'm a fag and I don't care about nuthin'.

Here's where THAT came from...

We had a Sunday afternoon practice on Sunday afternoon and then retreated to the bar near Benifer’s house (where we create our melodious wonderments) to watch the Redskins completely and totally suck festering donkey anus against the Bengals. But I digress, this is not about football but about crazy people and hatred and booze and lovely ladies that can save your soul with a simple sentence.

We get get settled for our day of bondo broken down the middle into two camps; smart guys and not-so-smart guys. Wesley and Benifer are the brains of the operation in that not only do they not drink but they don’t drink to the excessively stupid amounts that me and Philito do. Me and Philito, we represent the downtrodden and chemically dependent slice of life and I like to think we do so with panache and aplomb.

Anyway we get in there and settle in at the bar and within three seconds crazy old drunk motherfucker the next stool over is giving me the hairy eyeball and muttering to himself and his ashtray and I think. “Wow….this feels very uncomfortably familiar.” I got a beer and did my best to ignore old hard-and-Looney-eyes but it got more and more difficult as he would randomly turn to me, get within about ten inches and say interesting things like:


So I finally say “look man, I’m just here to watch the game so why don’t we just ignore each other and everything will be really much happier, alright?”


This is where I started plotting how long it would take from him pulling a shank to me jumping off my barstool and running to hide behind Wes while squealing like a second grade girl with harshly pulled pigtails. I mean on the internet I would give him a flying spin-kick to the neck and punch him so hard in the throat that his nuts would get pulled up to his nostrils but as I have noted in earlier posts I don’t fight in real life anymore because I suck at it and sucking at fighting correlates directly to absurd amounts of pain.

He finally shoved off after telling the very cute bartender that he wanted to fuck her. She handled it with more grace than could be reasonably expected and I tipped her well for her simple excellence as a human being and pourer or alcohol. Another patron came in and said, "man....there's this crazy dude out in the street yelling at a bunch of muslims...calling them all sorts of crazy shit." I wondered quietly if they were being called fags as well and pondered to myself why crazy old rednecks love to love to hate me. If I wasn't having so much fun getting drunk I imagine I would have been a tad melancholy, as it was I was cursing the TV and spilling beer on my pants and generally feeling pretty swell about things.

Eventually Philito’s lovely other half arrived and I asked her why crazy old drunken men always decide to single me out and give me shit at bars. She patted my hand and in the most endearing way possible said, “because you’re so much cuter than they are it makes them mad.” And since then it has just all totally made so much sense. I can't believe I never thought of that before!!!

So Philito, he is a lucky young man blessed with many talents and a lovely woman that loves him dearly. He has a dog named Tipsy that adores the ground upon which he stumbles and a liver that is tougher than Mr. T in his prime. I feel lucky to have him as a compadre’ and am glad he is sufficiently self-absorbed and egotistical enough not to resent me for my inherent and gawd given wonderfulness.

I'm pretty lucky...excluding all those popeyed motherfuckers out there that want to shank me for my dimples.


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