AnonymousCoworker

The Mrs. and I decided on a lark to head out the greatest bar in the history of bars the other night, and though the friends we called just couldn’t be bothered to meet us there on a whim and given only a few moments notice at the height of the holiday weekend, we still had a pretty good time. Well, we had a pretty good time, but it was the kind of good time that you can’t really plan because of how unintentional it was.

When we showed up the bar was relatively empty. There were maybe eight other people there aside from the two of us. The loudest were four snooty-looking douchebags across the bar from us. Dressed in clothes like they had just come from the symphony, they were drinking weird mixed drinks and talking loudly and deprecatingly about what I would generally consider my life. It’s hard to explain exactly, but they just expressed a disdain for all the things people in the middle class can do and can’t do on a regular basis. They made fun of food like casseroles made with condensed cream of mushroom soup. They suggested that we could all stand to learn a bit about the world and should spend our money on vacations to faraway lands as opposed to spending it on other things. Yeah. Just generally dickweeds.

They grew progressively drunker, and when one ordered an Irish coffee for the four of them to share, I knew it was all over. At J. Patrick’s Irish coffee is pretty much just a big cup of hot liquor. It’s also delicious, so it wasn’t long before they were all shouting “This is the best Irish coffee I’ve ever had! We’ll take four of these!” I was joking with Mrs. ACW that the frigid WASPy blond in the middle was definitely going to go home ready to bone the bejeesus out of her companion… and then vomit all over his 900 thread count sheets. Then I’m sure their maid would be forced to clean it all up.

I was eagerly looking forward to the loud suggestion from one of the men that they should swap women for the night, and of course the ensuing slap-fight/cashmere tornado would brighten my soul for years to come, but my attention was drawn to an EVEN BIGGER group of douchebags, if you can believe it. Just as Mrs. ACW and I were having a conversation about her style of dress, and I was explaining that she was “preppy-lite” at times, a slew of yuppies walked in and provided the perfect counterpoint. “That’s preppy,” I said, and our attention drifted from the inebriated foursome.

The bar had gotten more crowded, and in the meantime the band had set up and started playing. The yuppies settled at the end of the bar so we couldn’t hear them very well, but it wasn’t long before Joe, the owner/bartender, wandered down to the beer taps we were sitting in front of and while pouring a Guinness leaned over the bar and said, “That fella at the end of the bar is a real proctol orifice.”

Not sure that I had heard him correctly, I turned my head, leaned in, and said, “What?” He repeated himself, “A proctol orifice. Think about it.” He gathered his Guinness and headed back to the group at the end of the bar; we now knew them familiarly as “assholes”.

A few moments later anther bartender set a shot glass down in front of us, upside-down, and said that the assholes were buying a round for the bar. This may seem like a nice gesture, but it was clear that they were more interested in showing everybody that they had the money to buy a round than they were in creating camaraderie. And even though their dick-measuring charade was clear, we’re not the type of people to turn down drinks, so we each ordered another drink. The guy next to us was even more ballsy, and asked what the limit was. Upon hearing none he asked for Middleton’s, a rare Irish whiskey that Joe only serves on special occasions, and he never charges for it. However, the bartender rebuffed him, so he ordered two other whiskies: one for himself, and one for his wife who wasn’t drinking.

In the meantime they had requested that the band play happy birthday for the eldest douchebag of the group, and when they were done somebody shouted, “Now maybe Joe will get you some whiskey!” With that, the new-money blond that had come in with the assholes shouted “Tullamore Dew!” Of course. Of course she would want the most mass-produced “top-shelf” Irish Whiskey. It’s like when you were 16 and thought Jack Daniels was the be-all-end-all of booze. Of course when Joe brought down Middleton’s instead they were all fawning over the cedar box it came in and trying to figure out how many bottles they would have to buy to impress their friends. The blond stuck the bottle in front of a young yuppie woman sitting next to her. The young yuppie was chain-holding cigarettes. I’ve never seen anyone not smoke so many cigarettes in one sitting. I’m pretty sure the only puff she took is when she would light them, and then just sit and ash them into the ashtray on the bar. She was almost literally burning money. I’m sure her trust-fund is one roll-over from her torching hundreds and this is how she consoles herself in the meantime.

While they were ogling the whiskey and not-smoking cigarettes Joe came back down to our taps and I told him that they did indeed seem like proctol orifices, and I told him that my high-school English teacher would have said that they “didn’t know their derrière from an excavation in terra firma.” He laughed and walked away. Then he came back and said, “I like that,” before walking away again.

As they got drunk they got even more unbearable. The birthday douche had ordered a whiskey on ice, and when I walked past them to go to the bathroom I caught snippets of them talking about their boats. Mrs. ACW and I contemplated beating them to death with our pint glasses, but then decided against it lest their families buy them gold-plated coffins filled with diamonds.

Mrs. ACW and I headed out of the bar shortly afterward, but not before I suggested that if Mrs. ACW didn’t shut up I would “punch you in your head.” Mrs. ACW, being hard of hearing, and looking for a fight, thought I said, “I punch you head!” so she wrote it down on a bar napkin and laughed like crazy. Not one to be outdone, I took the bar napkin from her and told her I would blog that she said, “I eat poop sandwiches every morning for breakfast.” Then she threw a hissy fit and we went home.

All in all, a good night.