Heads Down, Bottoms Out

14thMay. × ’09

Last night I took up the offer to go out for some after work drinks. Normally I prefer to marry my buttocks to the polyester of my couch, but the constant tirade of passive bullying won me over. We went to the pub on the corner. It’s the usual post work haunt for my office. It’s a cosy sort of place, the music being the most standout feature. Every song is completely different to the one preceding it. After a beer, I’d heard Kenny G, House of Pain, and a Muzak version of Queen’s Fat Bottomed Girls.
Ipods shuffle – this pub baffles.

I suspect the eclectic music selection has something to do with the wild-eyed barmaid, who has more gold in her mouth than around her neck. I find her unnerving, especially since she asked me if her nipples looked punctual. I just said “Yes” and hoped she’d let go of my drink.
 
After a while I was fairly tired, reasonably drunk, and completely bored. Craig, one of senior management team, turned up and shouted me a drink that apparently had the medicinal effect of curing “faggotry“. He then mentioned we should check out this bar down the road called the “cat’s flaps“. I’m really not fussed with strip-clubs and tried to coerce them all into staying at the i-pub.
Craig whined

We have to go! For the last week the only pair of naked breasts I’ve seen are my wives

She’s a lucky woman. Lucky that he makes over $100,000 a year and is in the perfect age and weight bracket for heart disease.

Upon arrival, my boss and Craig walked straight in without a care. When Mike and I tried to enter, we were stopped by a small house disguised as a Samoan man. The Samoan’s wall-face informed us that unless we had lots of money or lots of muscles, we’d need to pay the entry fee. We paid the fee.

Once we got inside, it took us a while to find where my boss and Craig were. They were front row, elbows on stage, with a neat pile of “dancin’ dollars” in front of them both.  A waitress, who was sweating far too much for the amount of clothing she didn’t have on, asked me if I’d like a drink. I ordered a bourbon. She explained that they only do cocktails and gave me a menu. After I ordered my steaming clit, the girl bent over to ask what my boss wanted to drink and she broke wind. Loudly.

I had a moment of panic because something hit my glasses and when she twirled around and looked at my face, she immediately flicked something off of my spectacles and told me that it was probably just a sequin. Her sheepish smile did not convince me.

This is why I don’t do after work drinks. They wind up either at the bottom of a glass or the bottom of a stripper.

Where my tweeps at? http://twitter.com/DUFL

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One Comment

  1. unhelpful tech
    Posted May 15, 2009 at 6:36 AM | Permalink

    Ha, she farted poop on your face.

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