Nachos and the game
Nothing makes me happier than nachos and beer except being in a large city in a different country and STILL being thankful I’m not having sex.
On the way back from a bookstore (because that’s where single, middle-aged ladies go after work on business trips), I stopped by a brew pub to abuse my per diem. I ordered an IPA, because I like to support local beer, as well as nachos because they are my favorite food group with beer.
I had the good fortune to sit beside a four-top of 20-something know-it-alls. I realized rather than sit at the table and start my book, I needed to pull out my moleskin and take notes. Judging by the almost-finished pitcher of beer on their table, their shit was going to be good.
The cast of characters included a self-proclaimed promiscuous, white, long-haired brunette sitting beside a bed head, celery stalk body and white golf-shirt wearing hipster. On the other side, we had a lightly bearded Indian guy with long bangs sitting beside the table kingpin. This guy was a true piece of work. He had sunglasses on his head and wore a chartreuse button-down, white tie, khaki knee-length shorts, and white loafers.
I could have assumed he was a tool when his tie matched his loafers; however, when he talked loud enough to be heard by everyone and mentioned in every other sentence that he was Italian, I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, no woman really cares about your ethnicity unless you say your daddy was black, then we may pay attention.
I knew we were at a DickCon1 level when he said, “I know if I pretend to care, she’ll think I’m sensitive and will fuck me.” Yeah, that rule has been revealed in Details, Esquire, and on blogs for more than a decade. Google that shit. Or, better, put your fucking phone down, stop texting, and read a book.
There is a new super strain of gonorrhea out there and yet I fear cockroaches like this, at any age, more.