Saturday night, me and some bitches went out for a Girls Night. It’s just like another night going to a bar but you don’t bring any boys with you to cart your drunk ass home, so you gotta stay sober/cognizant enough to get your own self home. That means you can only do 1 shot.
So the bar we went to is one we’ve been to before and enjoy usually. Though we had a good time out, it wasn’t the best night. Or it was super awesome, I can’t tell. Within 15 minutes of being there my buddy B got roped into a lengthy conversation with some dude trying to mack it to her, T overflowed the toilet in the ladies’ room and we were on our second round of drinks. Within an hour of being there I got to see a dude get punched in the face and bleed from his nose all over. Seeing someone get punched is kind of cool. But the pussy who doesn’t know when it’s time to pack it up and take his bleeding face home is kind of a downer. When he got pushed into me, I exclaimed loudly like a cunt “Ew get off of me, go bleed somewhere else!” As if.
After finally getting a booth after waiting patiently for people to leave, and totally not hovering at all (seriously!) we felt victorious. Just a couple of gals havin’ a sit down, shit-talkin’ and booze-drinkin’ the night away. I hate to sound like “that snotty girl” but yo, why can’t guys just leave us alone? Out of like the hundred guys there, there were 2 hot ones. TWO HOT GUYS. None of them had any game and we were all visibly not interested and not engaging their bullshit. Even the “we’re lesbians go away” line didn’t deter them. When some guy sits down at the empty spot at the table while you’re still waiting for the last in your party, asks “What are you talking about” and you respond “Fire ants….” it takes a confused 10 seconds before he wanders off.
The Grand Marshall of the Loser Parade was Quarter Pitcher Creeper. He was a standard-issue bro in a stripey button-down shirt who was alone, walking around with a pitcher of beer. He would stop at our table and talk to us, try to engage us with god knows what, it was so loud I couldn’t hear and couldn’t be bothered to car what this Brony wanted. It took about his 3rd or 4th lap around the bar, so his 3rd lap stopping at our table and making idle chit-chat with us for me to realize… the amount of beer in his pitcher is not changing! What kind of ruse is that? He had a quarter pitcher of roofies, that’s what. At one point, he sat down after T & B had excused themselves to the ladies room, so it was just me and Jaclyn sitting there, and he just started drinking T’s beverage. I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR. It took only a little bit of stink-eye and saying out loud to Jaclyn “um did he really just do that” for him to be gone and not return to our table again. WE SAID NO THANKS, BYE.
The whole evening pretty much looked like this:
All in all, we decided we’re too grown for that bar and next time we will have a sloppy ladies’ brunch instead.