Lately I've been a little perturbed that nothing cool or funny
has happened to me in the past few weeks, and I've actually caught myself trying stupid stuff in public, (like my stunt at
The Passion of The Christ the other day), in an attempt to generate new material. Don't get me wrong, I've
got enough drunken college tales to fill two or three novels, but I like to live in the moment, and February has been a zilcho
month.
That all changed this past Saturday night.
After being accosted by the angriest pair of homosexuals in
Asheville, (Read the upcoming story, Viva Las Gaygas), I came home and wrote for a little while before deciding that
I should go out. I already had a standing weekend invitation from one of my training buddies, and a subsequent phone
call put a truly fucked up string of events into motion.
Lemme' start by giving a little background info on the cast
of characters.
My kickboxing/groundfighting instructor, [Super Asskicker],
has only four students that attend class regularly: Justin, Tim, Jerry, and my roommate, Kyle. I'm not including myself
in this list because going to class once every two months doesn't make me a regular attendee.
Naturally, Kyle and I hang out all the time, but I really
don't get to drink with Justin and Tim that often, (Jerry is relatively new, so I hardly know him).
As far as fighting goes, Justin is the biggest and strongest
of all of us, and by far the best grappler. He's built like a Sherman Tank, and his close cropped, white blond
hair gives him a Viking-esque quality. Next Christmas I have every intention of buying Justin a helmet with two bull
horns sticking out of it.
Contrastingly, Tim has short black hair and an olive completion,
and even though he's the smallest of our group of rectal envisorators, he's an asswhipping Tasmanian Devil in his
own right. This only recently became apparent to me last Monday when I went to [Super Asskicker's] class after a two
month lay off and discovered that Tim is now the fastest puncher/kicker.
(By the way, Kyle was out of town this weekend, so he won't
appear in this story.)
Anyway, I call up Justin and Tim, and they come over whooping
and hollering like kindergartners on crack. I can only assume that they were excited about going out with "Drunk
Mike", because the last time we threw down together, I fell over in a grocery store and yelled at this lady in line, (all
in front of a cop, I might add).
They'd brought their buddy "Chip" with 'em, who's funny as
shit and boasts a rapier wit that rivals my own. Tall, lean, and privy to the GQ look, Chip harbors the edge of madness just
behind his eyes, and I had a feeling we were all destined for trouble.
After drinking Vodka and Propel Fitness Water in my kitchen
for thirty minutes, we start trying to decide where to go. Chip and I actually wanted to go to a gay bar, because four
heterosexual beaters of ass in such a place is money in the bank with respect to hilarity.
Alas, Justin adamantly protests this idea, so we settle on
a tavern called Bier Garden.
After making the short drive downtown, Chip pulls into a free
parking lot I've never seen before, and we get out and head for Bier Garden. Little do I know that the
game is already afoot, as a foursome of college-aged guys had pulled in a second after we did, and their "gang" is only a
few steps behind our "gang" as we walk down the sidewalk.
Now, I wasn't drunk yet, but I really wanted to give Justin
and Tim a show, so I start talking to them (loudly) in my patented "gay voice". Among my many talents, is the ability
to imitate pretty much anybody, and I'd switched from Mississippi toughguy to FLAMING homosexual in a matter of seconds.
This was partly for Justin and Tim's comedic benefit, and partly for the guys walking behind us on the sidewalk.
"You bunch a sillies!" I complained with a pronounced and
high-pitched lisp, "I wanted to go to Scandals so I can shake my money maker!!!"
(Scandals is Asheville's best known homosexual hang
out.)
I continue to yell equally squishy stuff to all within earshot,
and at one point, I burst into a soulful rendition of the song It's Raining Men while prancing along the sidewalk
like a ballerina. "Behold my whirling muffin ass!!!" I added.
Justin, Tim, and Chip seemed to be getting a kick outta this,
but it didn't escape my notice that the guys walking behind us were making rude comments about my behavior. I assume
they were macho, homophobic types who actually thought I was gay, and while I knew things could turn violent at any
moment, I kept up the act.
Was I looking for a fight? No, but I wasn't gonna behave
just because they were unsure of their own sexualities. Besides, fuck 'em! Starting shit with three of
[Super Asskicker's] disciplines is like sticking your dick in a garbage disposal- it may seem a funny idea at the
time, but sooner or later you're gonna get your colon yanked out through your pee pee hole.
Luckily (for the rival gang) nobody seemed to pick up on the
comments except for me, and we entered Bier Garden without incident.
Let me just say that Bier Garden is NOT one of my favorite
places to hang out. It's usually so packed and loud that a guy like me has NO CHANCE of hooking up, chiefly because
I rely on charm to meet girls, and you can't crack wise beneath 60,000 decibels of thumping pseudo hip hop. Still, the
bar was only half full, (which is unusual for a Saturday night), and I decided to make the most of it.
The four of us get a table near the barren dance floor, and
as soon as we sit down, my compatriots start feeding me drinks, apparently determined to conjure "Drunk Mike"
whether I wanted him there or not. I wasn't about to turn down free liquor, and the devouring of Vodka and
Red Bull commenced with unbridled fury.
Amazingly, I COULD NOT GET DRUNK!!! I don't
know what the hell was wrong with me, but "Drunk Mike" was turtled up like a penis in ice water, and I had to make due
with "Friendly Mike". I hate talking about myself in the third person, but the absence of "Drunk Mike" turned out
to be a good thing. He's a mean one, that "Drunk Mike", and thus has no reservations about debauchery or belligerence.
On the other hand, "Friendly Mike" loves everyone, and is witty, calm, collected and wise.
"Friendly Mike" saved our asses, but we'll get to that.
So the night moves on with the four of us talking to this
passerby or that, mostly due to "Extroverted Chip", who was spitting game at every piece of ass his voice could reach.
The most memorable attempted conquest was this pair of skimpily dressed turbo hotties that Chip yelled at until they came
over and started talking to us.
One was petite and blond, the other dark haired and Asian.
The blond was good looking and all, but the Asian girl was MEGA fine, her ghetto booty barely covered by a pair of low slung
Gap jeans. They were easily the coveted prize of every guy in that place, and not just because of the way they looked.
With the dance floor empty, these two vixens were shaking
their way from group to group, each gyrating indiscriminately as they seduced male after lusty male. I tried my own
pass at the Asian girl after Chip called 'em over, but she wasn't interested. Granted, she gave me a double take after
my initial comment to her, as if considering me for sperm donation, but that's as far as it went.
At one point, I turn around in my chair and start talking
to this other table of fellow patrons, eventually coercing them to scoot their table next to ours so we could expand our base
of operations. The inhabitants of said table numbered at four or five, with only one of them being male. The guy
in question looked like Tommy Lee of Motley Crew/Pamela Anderson fame, except that he wore square framed glasses and a multicolored
do-rag.
Despite this guy's amicable personality, "Drunk Mike" would've
made fun of his ensemble until he started crying and ran away. Fortunately though, "Friendly Mike" isn't that mean,
so I merely stated his resemblance to Tommy Lee and left it at that.
At some point, I look up and notice that our recently acquired
acquaintances have added another member to their party: a voluptuous blond who I would later come to know as "Amanda".
With a flattering, low cut, light blue top, Amanda was dressed to kill, her facial features deceptively exquisite. When
I say "deceptively", I mean that I didn't think she was all that upon first glance. Definitely pretty, but
too textbook Barbie Doll to stand out. Gradually though, her aesthetic splendor started to break through my semi-inebriated
sense of perception, and I realized that Amanda was beautiful.
Ah, but Chip had already beaten me to the punch, and was knelt
down beside her chair whispering god-only-knows-what into her ear. I'm not a very good judge of male attractiveness,
but I'm pretty sure Chip is better looking than I am; and, given his personality, I figured he had the best chance out of
all of us. Plus, a good friend NEVER tries to muscle in on his buddy's action, and the only role I would've played is
that of Chip's "Wing Man" if intervention was required.
With this in mind, I turn my attention back to Justin and
Tim, only to hear Amanda bark at me from across the other table.
"You're a bartender at Tressas, huh?!?" she demanded, her
face more combative than inquisitive.
"What?" I replied, prompting Amanda to lean in and ask the
same question.
Now, I read body language like most people read words
on paper, and I immediately sensed a trap. Amanda wasn't asking me a question; she was accusing me of lying even before
I gave an answer.
To explain, let me expound on a few semantics. Tressas
is an upscale jazz bar which I've frequented quite often since coming to Asheville in 1999; in fact, it's usually my drinking
hole of choice. Up until a few months ago, my roommate Kyle was the bouncer there, and most weekends I would come up
to Tressas and sit with him by the door, thus lending my "back up" in exchange for welcome conversation or the occasional
slew of free drinks.
Even before we moved in together, Kyle and I were mutual students
of [Super Asskicker], and since we both LIVE martial arts, I never missed an opportunity to be his co-bouncer. That
aside, I know the rest of the staff really well, and I truly feel like a part of the Tressas family.
I'm on a first name basis with the owners, Terri and Tressa; I've hung out with most of the bartenders and servers; and me,
Kyle and [Super Asskicker] have given close quarter combat seminars for their employees on more than one occasion.
Chip was no doubt aware of this because Justin knows my background,
and there were a number of possible reasons that he'd told Amanda that I was a bartender at Tressas. I quickly ran through
these in the millisecond before I gave my answer, my Vulcan intellect weighting the pros and cons.
Let's take a look, shall we?
1. Chip had mixed up bartender with pseudo-bouncer, and thus
made the claim on account of a simple mistake. Still, I could already tell that Amanda had a healthy distrust of men,
and me correcting Chip might've hurt his chances. As such, my only option as a loyal wing man was to lie and agree with
him.
2. Chip's "game" wasn't working, so he was trying to build
me up in an attempt to selflessly salvage the situation. Again, I would have to lie and say "yes" to increase my own
chances with Amanda.
3. Chip was drunk as fuck and didn't know what he
was saying, so any continuing fabrication he was making up would only work if I went along with it.
In all three scenarios, my best course of action was to lie
and say that I was indeed a bartender at Tressas.
Big mistake...
As soon as I nodded to the affirmative, Amanda goes apeshit
and starts calling me a liar. Apparently, she was a frequent patron of Tressas, and knew even before she asked that
I wasn't a member of the staff proper.
Mike: (taken aback by her verbal assault, but suddenly unwilling
to get busted), "Whoa, whoa, whoa! How do you know I'm don't work at Tressas?"
Amanda: "I'm up there all the time, and I've never seen you
there! You're a liar!"
Mike: (innocently shaking my head) "What a minute! Let's
just think about this.. Why would I lie? I mean, honestly, what could I possibly gain by lying to you?"
Amanda: "Uh, cause of pussy?!?"
Mike: (choking on my drink) "What?!?"
Amanda: "You heard me! You're just lying to get some
pussy!"
Mike: "I see... So by that rationale, if I were telling
the truth, you'd go home with me?"
Amanda: "NO!!!" she wailed defensively, "I mean,
no, I wouldn't! But I know what you're doing!"
The above exchange isn't word-for-word verbatim, (nor
are the ones to follow), but the gist of it is dead on. I'm only making that distinction because Amanda will probably
read this, and I don't want her coming back on Mike's Forum and calling me a liar again.
After more of the same, I lean in with mock empathy and say,
"Somebody hurt you, didn't they? I mean, some guy must've really done a number on you."
To this, Amanda smugly sat back in her chair and crossed her
arms.
"Oh? And why is that? Because I'm not falling
for your bullshit?"
"You're damaged goods, lady," I chuckled dismissively, then
turning to talk some more with Justin and Tim.
This is a situation that would've been totally different were
"Drunk Mike" in attendance. "Drunk Mike" would've verbally torn Amanda a new ass, thus focusing on her "I hate men"
mindset and mercilessly exposing her insecurities one by one. As a martial artist, this is kind of what I do-
I study my opponent, I find a weakness, and then I exploit it, all the while revealing nothing about myself that
can come back and get me.
I'm actually BETTER at linguistic combat than I am at physical
combat, but only "Drunk Mike" capitalizes on that certainty, so Amanda got off light. Regardless, "Friendly Mike" isn't
a pussy, and since Chip had dragged me into this, (the WW III starting lie being his), I would've felt
justified letting this girl have it.
If you've read my other stories, you might be asking yourself,
Why didn't Mike unleash the fury? Well, like I said, I read people really well, and something about Amanda
made me suspect that she was a little bit more than a two dimensional hooker. You probably can't tell by my written
account of our conversation, but Amanda is well-spoken and articulate, and in retrospect, she came off more "perceptive" than
"damaged".
Being attractive, I'd imagine that she gets hit on all the
time by cheesy guys with transparent motives and no moral fiber. I'm not claiming to be any different, but I'm more
slick about it. Regardless, Amanda's reaction was as calculated as it was knee-jerk, which led me to believe that she
"knew" the phallic hearts of men, and that she could see a line coming from a mile away.
This speaks of intelligence, and since I'm the smartest guy
in the world, it's rare that I classify someone as such...
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Justin and Tim had heard
the whole conversation- so had Chip- and all three came to my defense. In slurred yet enthusiastic tones, they proclaimed
my merits as best they could, extrapolating on my abilities as a writer, and swearing to my status as "a good guy"
* snort * * giggle *
The "writer" part apparently intrigued Amanda, (as she's a
poet), and we continue our conversation at a much more subdued level of viciousness. I think I told her about the
novels I'd written, and my resulting contract with the Lee Shore Agency out of Pittsburgh, but I mainly focused on the website,
since it's nonfiction, (for the most part).
As before though, Amanda thought I was making it all up, and
she called me out. Once again keeping my guns in their holsters, I procured a pen and cocktail napkin to scribble
down the address to my website.
I wasn't so much pissed at her skepticism as I was challenged
by it, and I genuinely wanted to prove myself. Of course, said proof would only come into play if she went home and
actually looked up my site, and while I doubted I would ever see her again, I longed for vindication.
What's funny is that Amanda kept going off on me the whole
time, warning again and again that, "We'll see if you're lying when I get home to my computer!!!", as if that had any bearing
whatsoever on the present state of affairs. What- was she gonna contract a group of Triad hitmen to hunt me down if
she found out I was full of shit? I doubt it, so her threats where weird and absurd. Still, I liked her eccentricities
because they were something apart from the ordinary, and yesterday, she did indeed visit the website.
Since Amanda busted me lying earlier, I'd put our present
score at one-and-a-half to one, (advantage Mike because I only lied the first time to back up Chip).
I'M RICK JAMES, BITCH!!!
By the way, if you wanna know why I've been saying that lately,
check out this clip from the Dave Chappelle show:
