Velociworld

Life In The Fastidious Lane

So I found myself in a rather seedy sports bar in Mandarin tonight, because I have some buddies who had a gig there, and no sports being afoot of a Friday night, they were the gladiators of choice. This is a filthy Gator bar, recall, and therefore the place positively reeked of the Great Unwashed.

That is the only drawback to my existence in my own little slice of heaven, by the way. It is, after all, the Belly of the Beast, but the fact I wore my Georgia Bulldogs cap had more to do with the fact I have not bathed in two days to the more common issue of taking it to The Man, and beggaring a fistfight.

I was with my neighbors, also, who are Gator fans as well, however I had liberally misted them with Dolce & Gabbana before entering, proximity being an issue, and they were pleasant enough to be around.

It gets interesting: at the second song, and it is only ten of the clock, a couple forces aside some bar tables, and creates an impromptu dance floor. They then proceed to perform a, a, thing I cannot call a dance. It was more akin to a pornographic skit, thankfully with denim prophylactic. I promise, at one point this man's entire left hand had disappeared into the crack of her Levi'd ass.

Allow me to describe the couple in question: he was wearing a Gator T shirt and a visor, said visor being worn not only backwards, but upside down as well. Machismo takes on a whole new meaning down here, as does chivalry, and deodorant. The girl was slathered in more ink than Gutenberg, angry barbed wired stuff, in inappropriate places, too. I was compelled at one point to cut in, but The Bride forbade it. There was a post there, I argued, to no avail.

It gets more interesting: another fellow DID cut in, and they made a perverse version of a turkey sandwich, with hellish spasms. Then, of course, the entire social compact broke down, and The Bride and her cohorts were all dancing with the cretins, and everyone else.

High point: when the band played Desperado, the visored man pulled out his lighter. Encore! I must confess this is where I depart from my buddies' playlist, because I think the Eagles blow syphilitic peccaries. Unless, of course, someone is splaying out an eightball in front of me, at which point I am pretty much engaged with whatever they want to play. This was not the case tonight, however, and so I sat bemused, befuddled, and befuckedup, the last being a term of recent coinage, but ancient lineage.

Oh, where is The Bride? Hell, I left her there. She wasn't done, and I never interfere with a woman's right to choose. Besides, I had to memorialize this special moment. Hey. She had a ride.