To celebrate my first weekend back at school, I did that thing people do where they go out to socialize (?). The first bar we went to was where I imagine the guys from Duck Dynasty patronize after a long day of making duck calls and using a grammatically-incorrect bastardization of the English language. Plastic cups, darts, questionable detritus on the floor – it had everything a suburban hillbilly could ever dream of… and more. Oh, so much more.
Antlers seemed to be the main decorative element in the bar with beautiful taxidermied animals serving as accents to liven up the space. (GET IT?!!!!!!) There’s nothing I’d rather stare at than the eyes of a
cute boy dead raccoon that appeared to be in the throes of a rabies-induced manic episode when it died. It was truly the stuff of nightmares. (GET IT?!!!!!!) Or maybe the taxidermist artist just took certain creative liberties with this particular dead animal – maybe he imagined himself as some sort of Picasso of the taxidermy world.
Besides looking into the glass-filled eye sockets of forest creatures scattered here and there (think the lobby at the Bates Motel in Pyscho), there was an – err – “older” crowd. Regardless, we had fun but soon left for less grey pastures (no offense, y’all).
The second bar we went to was unbelievably crowded. We got in and immediately multiple bodies of varying intoxicated states were slammed up against us. That’s how EVERY bar is, you say. NO. It was worse. It was like Southerners at a butter festival. So. Many. People. I felt like I should have donned a swimsuit and goggles and done a nice, relaxed breaststroke through the crowd. I tried to be polite and say “excuse me” while I made my way through the crowd but I was largely ignored and steamrolled by plaid-wearing LAX bros. (Translation for Dad: jockish, not-so-smart, “manly” guys who play lacrosse or wish they did.)
When we had shoved and pushed our way to the bar, a guy happened to be there (WHA?!) so I briefly exchanged witticisms with him and made fun of his sweater. He was wearing a Mr. Roger’s sweater. I can’t listen to someone’s intelligent conversation when the theme song of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood is playing in my head the entire time: would you be my neighbor? It sounds funny but it’s not. It’s very distracting.
At one point, my friends and I had acquired our own bubble of personal space – a rare treat – and we were enjoying ourselves when suddenly, a disembodied hand entered the circle and broke the revery. It started swooping into a hug-like gesture but I was not the target, it was the girl behind me. I literally limboed underneath the hand/forearm and escaped an awkward hug-bombing moment. To add insult to injury, the body attached to the intrusive hand was falling on top of me after this incident so I gave this poor-excuse-for-a-bipedal a few reassuring pats on the back and said, “JUST SO YOU KNOW, THERE IS A PERSON RIGHT BEHIND YOU. JUST FYI. DON’T WORRY IF YOU FALL ON ME AND SLOWLY BREAK ALL OF MY RIBS. NO BIG DEAL.”
Because I got an elbow to the head, body-slammed, and otherwise completely thrown around like a rag doll, I like to believe my experience at this bar counts as a bar fight. Unfortunately, I lost. I lost a lot. Except when I got a surprise a hug from a stranger because… *SPIN MOVE* I got out of there before he even noticed. I may not have bulk, but I have speed and the agility of a rabid raccoon.
And that’s about it. I’m glad insulting bar patrons is now officially a coast-to-coast tradition. Nobody will escape. Nobody.