Watch Your Mouth, Ladies or I'll Throw Some Piss in Your DrinkSubmitted by AllyJeans at 2005-09-27 20:22:27 EDT
Rating: 1.86 on 47 ratings (48 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
You’re simply the best.
Better than all the rest.
Better than anyone,
Anyone I’ve ever met.
I don’t give out phony compliments. I can’t stand them. If someone thinks my dress makes me look like Whore # 7 in “Gang Bang Beauties,” I want to know. If John Doe thinks my latest perfume is less “Flowers of Italy” and more “Bum who Shit in the Sink,” I DEFINITELY want to know. I’d like to think others would want the same from me. Bear in mind, I’m no sadist; I don’t go out of my way to wreck someone’s day. I just respect people too much to bullshit them all the time.
You could ignore this for the sake of sparing someone’s feelings, but then you have to start remembering lies, and commit yourself to regurgitating meaningless platitudes until you feel faker than a twelve-cent dime. It’s a pain in the ass. What’s worse is that you inadvertently expose that poor person to embarrassment and eventual attack at the hands of the so-called: “Locker Room Gals”
Guys think they hold the copyright on humiliation and cruelty, but ask any school girl and she’ll share a few stories that could make you wince. Think back to the shower scene in “Carrie,” where she has her first period and all the girls laugh at her hysterics, throwing towels and taunting her with “Carrie’s got the curse! Carrie’s got the curse!” Well, that’s only a slight exaggeration. In real life, they wouldn’t have thrown the towels. Instead they would have took pictures and spit on her.
What’s amazing is that in the outside world these people can be as wholesome and complimentary as the flying nun. However, once your beyond those swiveling doors—knee deep in potpourri and surrounded by pink metal—all the truth comes out.
If some girl wears the same outfit twice in one week, she’s screwed. She might as well move. Becky Limptit will shove her head around a corner and tell you about it—adding that miss fashion mistake is a filthy piece of trash with shit under her fingernails. Did Wendy’s diary drop out of her purse? By 7th period each page will be photocopied and flung all around the school, almost certainly scarring her for life and possibly leading to a eating disorder (This actually happened to someone I knew back when I was in high school. The guys all had their theories on who did it. Most thought it was romper room reject and all around loser: Eddie G.. He was considered most likely to die from a head-butt. Nope, way off. . It was our valedictorian. At commencement, she gave a speech about seizing the future without holding on to the past .Great speech. Needed more pig blood.)
You’re probably asking why I bring all this up? Well, I actually ran into a pack of these bitches last night. Grown up, they have their bitterness hidden just under an exterior of one part mother, three parts cunt rag. I usually withhold such flowery descriptive terms, but they deserve it.
I was sitting at the bar with friends. We were getting over our Monday’s and discussing how much we hated the idea of braving the rest of the week—typical whiney, Pepsi generation bullshit. About halfway through our second round, a trio of ladies wandered in out of the rain and sat a few stools down from me. I ignored them and chatted it up with my friends until I heard a burst of laughter emanating from their direction. It was that annoying “guffaw” that isn’t fit for much except “Three Stooges” marathons and fart jokes. Since the TV was off and I couldn’t catch a whiff of anything, I grew interested in their conversation.
Turns out, they were making fun of a kid. From the description, I made out that it was a girl over by the far wall: a sweet little ten-year-old who was missing an arm. This went beyond the usual snide remarks about hair or clothing and to a completely new level of evil. Of course, they didn’t stop with one joke or two, but strung them together like a bad comedian at a celebrity roast. All that was missing were the rim shots and references to Bea Arthur’s dick. As they went on I started to get that “shut the fuck up look,” but it had no effect. Right when they were about to yell loud enough for the poor girl to hear, I tipped some of my drink on the loudest offender’s blouse.
“Come on…this is brand new!”
I shrugged my apology and the nitwits stormed for the bathroom. Evidently, it took three of them to handle something of this magnitude. At that moment, I decided to get some cosmic justice. I went to Rick and handed him my glass.
“Piss in this!”
He looked at me like I had just asked him to do some quadratic equations.
“Are you serious?”
“Just do it. I can’t aim!” He had been listening to the obnoxious gaggle and could figure out why I needed it. Still, he had never pissed while sitting on a barstool—at least intentionally, anyway.
He took a breath. “Look away.”
My friends started laughing. Rick is the kind of guy who will do anything just for bragging rights. I thought I crossed a line with my request, but he was a gamer and a go to guy. The non-urinators looked toward the bathroom for cover while I looked at the crazy junk on the walls…you know, trumpets and bicycle rims, beer signs from the 50s…It’s set up like that goofy place with the mozzarella sticks. I can’t remember the name of it.
Anyway, when Rick finally started to tinkle, rattling the swizzle stick like a cheap noisemaker, we lost it. Pissing in public is right up there in the easy humor department. Rick was shaking from laughter and getting upset. “Come on you’re going to make me spill.” When he finished shaking (the other kind), I grabbed the glass out of his hand and held it with a ring-stained napkin.
Benny (another friend) shouted from a couple stools down.
“Ten bucks if you stick your finger in it.”
“Fuck off, Ben.”
With another glance at the bathroom, I drifted to the three lonesome Appletinis on my left. Being careful not to add enough to make it obvious, I dripped a few drops in each glass. I felt like a chemist. Too much and I’d probably end up in a fight, too little and I’d get boos from the peanut gallery. Satisfied with my measurements I looked over and got a thumbs up from everyone. Good sign. Then I slid over to my seat, reached over the bar, and dumped the remainder of my cocktail down the sink. The bartender had been flirting with a brunette in the corner and never saw it.
The girls returned a few minutes later. The one I defaced gave me a dirty look, and I apologized again. “Oh it’s no big deal,” she lied, sitting down and turning her back to me. Waiting like golf spectators, we held our breath. Then they began drinking. We almost split open trying to contain ourselves. Benny said he had to get a smoke, and we all quickly jumped up to join him. Outside, we did split open. The rain poured on us but we didn’t care. We stared through the plate-glass window, making jokes and ignoring our collective pneumonia. After five minutes, we got it together and went back in. It was still impossible to look at them without snorting, but if we stared at our shoes, we were OK. We passed the time talking in code, saying things like, “Golden showers bring May flowers” and “Pee soup would really hit the spot.”
You had to be there. In the moment, these jokes were beyond reproach.
We left about an hour later. The girls were still there, sucking down another round of drinks. Unfortunately we were running out of material. In the parking lot, my friends voted to make me an award, eventually deciding on a gold-plated urinal cake. Honestly, I don’t do it for the awards. I do it for the love of the game.