The Misadventures of Being A Single Straight Sane White Male

I’m probably going to lose some friends for this. This is why the post is staying anonymous. But everyone knows who this is anyway, so my cover is blown. I could be just spending my morning eating cheese and/or sleeping (most likely dreaming of said cheese), but I’m going to write this anyway. I am also not worried about offending anyone involved, because chances are:

a. These people will never read this
b. They may not care
c. People will realize that I am being tongue-in-cheek, and have no real problem with homosexuality
or d. This night never occurred, and it was all some fantasy conjured up while watching my roommate play Grand Theft Auto, as I wished my night could be more bizarre.

I’m relying on the former.

So I went out last night. I do this every night. Before last night, I wasn’t sure if I did this in order to be drunk all the time, or to pathetically sit there and wish I could meet Ms. Right. And in the case of last night, I knew that I had no chance of meeting anyone special at a karaoke night in some bar in Wyoming. These things just don’t happen. So I throw in the towel. Make some popcorn, unplug the Playstation and watch some NFL network. Maybe I could watch 15 different commentators say the same borderline-ballsy comment about Brett Favre’s 20 day retirement. Or maybe, just maybe, I could catch someone saying Phillip Rivers, get a hardon, and be able to go to sleep. So, this looks to be the place…wait a minute, I thought I wasn’t going out? Shit.

The second I walk in, I know I’m not welcome. The place has an even division between white trash, black trash, and chicks in plaid shorts. And then of course, there’s the crew (I’m going to call it the crew because even though they aren’t, they are the only ones there that don’t want to chop my dick off.) Immediately, I look for the bathroom to find refuge. Above the urinal, within all the sports memorabilia, I discovered that I was being stared down by the ’96 Lions. There was my boy, Benny Blades, with the likes of Barry, Herman, Perriman, and of course, Scott Mitchell looking like he just threw an interception (he probably did). See, now this was nice. A good night out with my urinal buddies. Their personalities may be a little flat, but they are most definitely important people. After some time with my homies on the wall, I realize that I should reunite with the real life friends outside.

I walk into a thick cloud of smoke and am immediately hit in the balls with a pool cue. Not his fault, however, billiards is a hard game to play on a foggy mountaintop. Plus, I can’t get angry because the dude wore a purple bandanna that hinted to me that he tried to assassinate Prince on multiple occasions. The place is strange. The DJ booth is actually the set piece to a mirror house. I know this as a fact. The wallpaper is all black light lit, and I think they tried to get the cheapest patterns available. It was like the owner walked into a Spencers Outlet Store and picked the 2 giant rolls crumbled up on the ground in the bathroom that doesn’t even work. So we have a weird tie-dye pattern that send out acid flashbacks (which cannot be confirmed nor denied that I could feasibly have authentic acid flashbacks) and neon green fish in a neon blue fish tank. I am pretty sure that this was uncool even in the 90’s. And of course, there’s a pole. O.J. Princeton occasionally slides down on it while screaming in a girlish tone. All is old, all is new, all is weird, and everyone is dancing to a song that I’ve never heard before…and they are all coordinated in it’s official dance. Unless someone is getting married, this is not a good place for me to be spending a Tuesday night. Nobody’s going to make Charger references here. Only in my living room can I get that. But the drink specials were something to be seen.

So there were $3 domestic pitchers. Please take this time to pry your hat out of the air duct in the ceiling. And, well, yeah, they were pitchers. Pitchers that would do much better in a Fischer-Price kitchen and dinette set. There’s something about this place that seems to silently mock me, but I can’t put my eyebrow on it. This is when it hits me: I am the only single, straight, sane white male in this bar. So what does that mean? Well, there are like 50 chicks here, some married white trash, a couple of gay bubs, and some ect. gangsters…I have this whole place to myself? But what’s the catch.

It was probably around this point that the DJ, who looks like a combination of my Kindergarten teacher (or was it 6th grade…or both? Yeah, both) and a version of Paula Abdul that just had an accident with a garden plower, starts singing “Come To My Window”. This reveals my surroundings further. Shit. This is one of “those” bars. One of the bars that all god fearing white men dread to go. Where the beer is lukewarm, the music is strange, and the girls just aren’t having it. This is when i also realize that even though I had no chance or intention of doing so, I will not get laid tonight. (This has happened about 672 nights straight) On top of that, masturbation is completely out of the question. So what do I do? Guzzle my mini-pitcher, sign up to do a song, and forget about how out of place I am.

Things got a little strange during “Push It”. Just a tad more strange than I am comfortable with. There were at least 10 women over 40 freak dancing on each other (and I think I saw lip slippage), and a couple of 45 year old butches were dancing in the cage (by the way, they have a cage). I avoid this to take another leak, and the place took a turn for the worse. Instead of feeling comforted by the manly ’96 Lions (even though they really weren’t THAT manly) I look below to find…a framed picture of a girl looking down and laughing? Laughing at my dick? Who do you think you are, you fucking bitch! You think that’s funny? How about a little bit of piss in your face! (I miss) This whole place is mocking me. The mini pitchers make me feel inadequate, the pictures on the wall laugh at my flaccid schlong, and the fucking wallpaper will not stop moving!

There’s only one good exit strategy for this place. And I had it down pat.

Ideally: I do a solemn rendition of “loser”, nobody dances, most boo, some hiss, and I’m never invited to come back again.

Reality: The DJ couldn’t find the song. I sulk at the table and chainsmoke while the white trash of the world fuck their wives on the dance floor. Some old butch begs me to dance. I decline by saying my legs are broken. I have a brief conversation with a friend, who is probably the only one at this point on the level.

Me: I have never felt so out of place in my entire life. I’m the only single straight sane white man here.
Her: Well, at least you’re styling. Just think of all the single straight sane women out there.
Me: But are there any of these single straight sane women here?
Her: No.

Exactly.

And what did I learn? Nothing. But I live another day…

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