Sometimes, poppets, you don't have to venture very far from home for entertainment.
There's a pub about a ten minute drive from my house. We don't often go, because it's generally not full of anything you'd call eligible, and when you're twenty-something, and Italian, and you're mother is pressuring you to get married, and your loins are starting to atrophy from lack of use, well, you just can't afford to cast your line in empty waters, can you?
Except, now I'm 30, and a little dead on the inside, and my uterus is about to throw a party, and so I'm feeling a little murderous and slighted by life... and that's how we ended up at A Local Dive. Also, there's free parking.
We fully expected to see the usual rabble that the Local Dive is known for: petrified curls with complimenting blue eyeliner, turtlenecks with gold chains, and mullets that were left over from their original appearance and having nothing to do with the current retro-ironic style. All this, set to the worst collection of K-Tel Classic Karaoke Hits you could ever imagine.
Oh, my treacle tarts, sometimes there's just no guessing where your Mare will end up.
I don't know what happened. I don't know what happened to the Local Dive, but we walked in and there were precious young whippersnappers walking around, with correctly layered locks, and carefully stylized faux-hawks. No bellybutton was hidden, and there were Chinese symbols and Sketchers as far as the eye could see.
And Sleye and The Teacher and the Conspiracy Theorist and I looked at each other, counted the days until we could retire, and sat down to enjoy the show. Because, remember the circus in Big Fish? Yeah.
There was a stripper! Well, she stayed dressed the whole time, but only barely, because under her jacket there was nothing but a white tank top and plenty of No Support Necessary! silicone. Beach balls! They were perfectly rounded miniature beach balls on her chest, probably with nipples that were programmed to point north at all times. At one point, a poor man's version of George Costanza had his hand not just on her bottom, but in, and under and around and almost digging for gold, and she didn't even flinch! And she was making out with strangers! And it was all very scandalous! And I'm going to talk about something else right now, because my glass house needs Windexing!
And there were two lovely boys who swaggered and guffawed and danced seductively with whatever blond, female counterpart they happened upon. And when they weren't doing this, they were following each other around, and giggling into each other's ears and trying very hard to conceal the fact that they were obviously luh-verrrs! I mean, hello! They only looked cute with each other and they were wearing outfits that coordinated, and you just know that wasn't an accident. I wanted to drive them to city hall myself, and watch them get married. Why bother, boys? Why bother with the silly girls, when you could just be all free and legal with your hot boy on boy action? Why tease me like that? Kiss. Him!
And then this other guy started singing in Spanish! People, please. Three months ago, The Dive's karaoke anthem was There's A Tear In My Beer Because Earl Has To Die, But I Will Survive In New York, New York With Money Money Money And A Little Grease Lightening. And now, we've got Senor Latino Hottie, wiggling his hips and screaming Juliana and La Bomba and making us all very confused because dammit, this bar is crappy and the tables smell a little and there are hockey games burned into the monitors that are hung from the rafters of this place. And this... this... delightfully in-tune Spanish boy is making me want to dance, and I'm wearing flats, dammit!
Except,that feeling is quickly doused because there's a guy wearing a sweatshirt with a white turtleneck underneath (A. It was probably a dickie and B. That's the uniform I was expecting of the night's patrons) and he's crawling around and through the legs of whoever is on the floor singing, because obviously, he does not realize that this is not a frat party from his youth, and he's not wearing a varsity jacket, and there isn't a keg to be seen. What the hell? Strippers and Latin music and university playthings and intoxicated old guys in dickies.
All we wanted was a glass of wine and a quick trip home.
We should have ordered popcorn, instead.
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