Why the odd blog title? You'll see...
A few weeks ago Slut and I met up at The Bees for some beers. We know the bartender and he only charges us a few bucks for the Bees ultimate trio dish chock full of fried frenemies.
The night was going fine. The bar was dead and Slut and I were swapping bikini wax horror stories and making fun of everyone. I looked over and noticed this guy walking in. He was the standard looking "local bar dude": Patriots player jersey, tapered acid washed jeans, really white sneakers and some sort of Members Only looking jacket. He looked to be about 40 and was extremely ruddy. And he chose his seat right next to Slut. Oh goody. This was going to be fun.
Slut and I were chatting idly when I said "Totally!" in agreement to something she had said. Mr. Ruddy spoke up, "What are you from California?"
I turned my head lazily his way, "What?"
"You said 'totally'. We're not in Cali. We're in Mass. Here you say, 'Fucking hell yeah!' "
"I'll take that under advisement."
I went back to my Blackberry and Slut tapped away on her phone.
"You girls and your texting. It takes me so long to type on my phone because I have fat fingers."
Why was he talking to us? There are some people out there who like to go to local bars and make conversation with random people. I only do this if I'm looking to hook up with the person I'm making conversation with. Other than that I'm talking to you because 1.) I know you 2.) you're in the way of the bartender or the obvious 3.) I'm hammered and whatever wingman I brought with me is lolling around the bar somewhere and I'm unsupervised. Other than that me and my bangs stick with the crowd we came with.
Slut and I gave Mr. Ruddy curt nods and continued to tap away.
"I mean, how do you do that?"
I suppose this is where the night went down hill. Me and my big mouth were so annoyed with this guy that I spat, "It's really NOT that hard."
To which, if I remember correctly he pulled out his phone and started talking about how "this is the phone he uses for work and blah blah blah." I sipped on my Bud Lite while he asked Slut what she did for work.
They chatted idly until she left for the restroom. Thankfully, Mr. Ruddy didn't find me worthy enough to talk to while she was in there. Although he did ask me if she fell in.
The guy had only been at the bar for an hour and he was already hammered. When Slut came back I said to him, "So what do you do for work?"
"I thought we went through this already."
"No. We didn't."
"I work for cansa (cancer) research."
Right. And I chat with the Pope via web cam every Sunday.
"REALLY?? That's so funny because I do to!!!"
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah! Where do you work?"
"Uh down by BU."
"And where did you go to Med School."
"BU."
"I'm pretty well known in the field. Who did you study under?"
"What did you say your name was?"
"Kate. So who do you work with?"
He held out his hand and started ticking/slurring off names, "Dr. Sullivan, Shea, Shembly, Sherflergenalkjaa;lsdj;l...."
"Hmmm...I've never heard of them. They must be only associated with BU."
"No, I teach at BU. I work at the Boston Medical Center.
"Near Mass Ave?"
Mr. Ruddy Cancer Researcher paused and replied, "Yum, Yum said the hungry bear!"
This was fun!
After my workplace interrogation of Mr. Ruddy he left us alone for a little while. Then the bartender (bless his heart) decided that it would be a good idea to let him have a shot. And after this he started to get up in Slut's grill. Finally he crossed the line and grazed her right one.
"Ok," she said, "Just keep your hands to yourself. You're getting a little touchy feely there."
"Oh geez. I apologize."
"Yeah man, leave them alone." That was Bob, our night in shining armor defending our honor in the corner. I later learned that he was a line cook for The Bees. Nice guy. Offered us a shot but I declined due to my needed sobriety to drive home.
Mr. Ruddy was started to get exasperated, and, well ruddy. "It's not like I can help it," he slurred, "I mean her big balloons are just THERE!"
*PAUSE* It has to be said that Slut has big balloons, but you don't talk about them! Especially if you're not worthy of them. And you definitely don't yell it out in the middle of Applebee's: Your neighborhood bar AND grill! *PLAY*
All you could her was the sound of Slut's chair scraping against The Bee's floor and Bob and the Bartender yelling "WHOAH! WHOAH! DUDE!!!"
I was horrified and afraid to look over because frankly I thought Slut had whipped his ass and left nothing but a pile of tap beer and a Pats shirt.
This guy apparently didn't get what the big deal was. "Geeeez....I mean she does have-"
The bartender cut him off. "Dude. Stop. If you start a sentence like that you ain't gonna finish it."
Mr. Ruddy headed off to the bathroom. I looked over in time to see Bob shaking a bottle of ketchup and then depositing a little squirt into the remainder of our offenders beer.
See ladies. Chivalry is NOT dead!