A Night At The Bar: A Tragedy In Three Acts

ACT I

I see you standing there.
Looking at my shoes.
They're nice shoes, no?
I got them at Ross.
Half off because there's no holes for shoelaces.
What? You aren't staring at me?
You're looking slightly in my direction because I'm standing next to the bar?
Surely you must be checking me out.
You're not?
Are you sure? Because I'm wearing new shoes.
Also, I put gel in my hair instead of spitting in my hands. My cowlick is slightly less noticeable.
So, you're sure?
OK. That's OK.
You're absolutely sure?
No worries girl, I think your friend is checking me out.
Wait, she's not your friend?
Wait, she's actually a man?
Wait, he's not checking me out, but looking at me with disgust because I just picked my nose and wiped it under the bar?
No way! I'm too fucking subtle for that.


ACT II

Now we're talking!
Dancing with a beautiful girl, I'm pretty sure that smile is genuine. My ineffable charm is currently irresistible.
Wait, I'll be right back, I have to use the gentleman's.
Hey! I'm back.
Wait, what's wrong?
Hey! I'm back.
No seriously, what's wrong?
Why did you sneak that quick glance down to my pants?
Those two or three drips of liquid by my zipper are totally from washing my hands. I swear!
What? My hands aren't wet?
That's because I used my pants to dry them off...duh!
What do you want me to do? Waste paper? You must not care about the environment.
OK, fine, go talk to that guy who's slightly more handsome, has more self-confidence and doesn't have pee drops on his pants.

ACT III

OKHHsjr, I judy just need to concentrate.
Yessir, things are back into focus.
I'm pretty sure I'd fuck anything in this bar, including the whiskey.
Yes. I would make spunky sweet love to that bottle of Jameson.
I'm pretty sure that bartender needs a 40% tip. She's really hot. Maybe if I tip her, she'll like me more.
Yeah, no chance she's remotely interested in me, but yeah, she's really hot. Plus, she'll know I respect her profession, unlike those other jerks in the bar.
There are so many jerks in this bar.
Like this fucking douchebag wearing the Ed Hardy "Punks Not Dead" shirt. That shit probably cost $80, only reaffirming that Punk is dead.
What, you don't like me laughing at your shirt?
Wow, your girlfriend is hot. How the fuck could such a douchebag get such a hot girlfriend? Sure, she looks dead inside, but she's still hot.
Maybe I should wear Ed Hardy.
I think that thought might be the lowest thought I've ever thunk.
Is "thunk" a word? I'll have to look that up when I get home.
Are you still angry at me staring at your shirt and sneaking a peek and your girlfriend's most likely fake chest?
Well, fuck you!
That's right, I'm telling you that in my mind, asshole! In reality, I'm slowly walking away and pretending that I was looking in the opposite direction.
I guess I should leave.

POSTSCRIPT

Mmmm...light...so early. I'm really thirsty.
Why am I still wearing the same clothes as last night?
How did I end up asleep? I really don't remember.
Oh right, I thought I was just going to "rest my eyes".
I guess I'll just take these pants off and go to the shower.
What's this, a receipt?
Why did I leave a $20 tip for a $40 bill?
Why do these pants smell like pee?
Oh man, I really can't afford to go out like this again.
Never again.

FOUR DAYS LATER:

I see you standing there.
Looking at my shoes.
They're nice shoes, no?
I got them at Ross...