The Father, the Sun, and Spirits
"This night can only get better," I
said looking across our frequented corner bar table at my best friend June.
Our eyes were then immediately drawn to a tall, Latino gentleman talking to June's manfriend- more specifically, we were drawn to his perfectly shaven head
with an equally as perfect tuft of grey hair cresting like a solo, silver wave
from the front of his head. June and I locked eyes again,
"Better!"
Quite literally, that tuft of perfection was the top of the night; the
icing on the cake- a really strange cake at that; or the third part to the
night's trifecta. (I would say the third part to the trinity but if you knew
what happened that night, you'd have a guilty conscience about making a Bible
metaphor too... oh wait...). My mom always says nothing good happens after
midnight... well, she's right. This night, all the good stuff happened before midnight. And by
good stuff I mean: Hell's Angels, overalls, whiskey, fighting, not-so-pretty
& not-so-skinny strippers, Mom Jeans, and that grey, perfectly combed tuft
of awesomeness.
FATHER
The
night started with innocent intent to swing by a diaper bash where some guys
were celebrating the upcoming birth of a child. How those guys get girls
to sleep with them, I have no idea. But let’s not dwell on that.
“Be warned, it may be a
little crazy. They will all be drunk and they love to mess with people. You
will probably be offended but just roll with it or they’ll do it more,”
June and her manfriend warned me. Manfriend’s buddy Max “Nasty” was apparently
loud, unfiltered, insulting, and hilarious….oh and a Hell’s Angel (minor
detail).
“So don’t be offended,
okay?”
“Ha! Do you even know me?” I joked back with June who then shrugged, throwing her hands up apologetically.
I was determined to get
Max to like me- mainly because I was absolutely terrified of what would happen
if he didn’t like me. Time to bring my A-game. So when we rolled up to the
little country home, lawn full of skinheads encircling a motorcycle, Manfriend
told one of us to roll down the window and ask for a Mr. Nasty;
"Max will love you if you do it!"
Challenge accepted!
“Um excuse me, but do you boys know where I
can find a Mr. Nasty?” I shouted to the drunken patch of tattoos outside. Immediately, there was a ton of shouting and bellowing laughter. As we pulled into
the drive, a big, bald man in overalls clutching a bottle of something alcoholic, pushed
his way through the crowd hollering,
“Who rang for Mr. Nasty?!”
Success!
After all the necessary introductions
(including those to a few pitbulls and a snake), making literal bets on when the cops
would show up, and getting invited into Nasty’s Man Cave where he shared a
bottle of Fireball with me and I declared him Pope, I was in. I was so in that I got high fives, hugs, and even a booty
bump from Pope Nasty himself- what a blessing.
But once a fight started to escalate, we decided it was best to leave.
Unfortunately I did not win the bet on when the cops would arrive. (There was a
BevMo giftcard on the line, dangit.)
Trifecta, Part 1: Complete.
I'd rather stare at THE SUN
Our next destination of the night was to
our favorite little country bar. It’s the only bar in that two stop-light town
and half the time, the bartenders drink just as much as their patrons! But that’s
another story. This little bar is where you come on Thursday
nights to see the same people karaoke the same songs, play pool on slanted
tables, and hang out with the bouncer, Big “Catfish” Stan. Catfish may seem like
quiet, middle-aged, bearded man who just sits in the corner of the bar, but
that 250 lbs of judo mastery can kick the top of any door frame. Needless to
say, anything goes if Catfish lets it. Now, when Catfish isn’t moonlighting as
a bouncer, he’s working out at the prison with my dad so Big Stan and I are
friends- he’s got my back.
Oddly enough, it was another guy who had
some other girls back that night- and I mean that in the least classy way
possible. Said man was a bachelor (will probably stay one too if his fiancé finds
out) and the girl was, well, definitely not Abercrombie-CEO approved. Donned in leather and
fishnets, her and her co-worker did their thing. One could pick up bills with her junk if you lay down and put
it on your face. I am
forever scarred, let’s not talk about it.
However, the best part wasn’t the twerking fishnets, but rather, it was the middle-aged lady in Mom Jeans who decided she could
give lap dances to young men as well. Over-sized purse in one hand and a sloshing
drink (clearly not her first…or even her third) in the other, she popped,
locked, and dropped it like it was… kinda warm with a slight breeze and some
cloud cover. I only wish that was the first time I had seen a middle-aged woman get motor-boated
this year… I'll tell that story another day...Regardless, she racked in
some money that night. That is, until one of the strippers ripped the money out
of mom’s bra and shouted,
“This is my money, ho!”
I was really hoping for a mom vs.
strippers fight that night but unfortunately, that’s all I got. As
uncomfortable as it was, it was still all fun and games... until the tops came off- then
I understood why they called that girl Bologna Barb in Pitch Perfect- my eyes
still sting.
Trifecta, Part 2: Complete.
SPIRITS
Somewhere in between the almost Strippers VS. Mom fight and the topless show, the silver surfer appeared rounding out our
trifecta. And the sprinkles on top of the icing on the cake? Dandruff. No, just
kidding! It was that the wannabe stripper mom was- get this- there with the silver surfer! Talk about a
romantic night out on the town! Ending my night by seeing that cresting wave of
glory was the best send-off from a bar I’ve ever had… except for that guy peeing
into the street when we left. Who then ralphed all over the bushes outside while
being spotlighted by our headlights (still a better show than the one those
strippers put on).
Trifecta, Part 3: Complete.
If that's the start to my summer, then I don't know if I should be worried or excited. I think I'm going to chose excited.
