Sour Puss

I know by now that people walk around all day with their own baggage and emotional issues. I get it, I’m 24 years old and I’ve had more than my fair share of days that suck. In fact, I sincerely believe that you have every right to walk around and be as much of a pissed off malcontent pain in the ass as you want. It’s your life dickhead. However, maybe on a Saturday night when I’m trying to have a little fun you should KEEP IT TO YOUR FUCKING SELF! Allow me to explain:

            Saturday night was my roommate and best friend’s (JPK’s) birthday. After a healthy amount of Saki and Sushi in the east village, we hit a certain bar named for the color of its door. Upon our entrance to said bar one of my boys spots a gang of kids he knows and we begin to mingle. My first clue that this is a bad idea should have been when I met Birthday Boy 2 from their party. What a sad sack of shit.

This mother fucker was balding, his eye bags were the size of rolling luggage, and his “man I stopped trying 6 years ago” fashion statement was enviable. Dude, I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure the Kurt Cobaine look is out. When I am introduced to him, I rub his bald spot for “good luck”. He was none to pleased, but fuck him the only birthday matters is JPKs, and he is cracking up to see me spit shining this guys head.

After my Memphis style greeting (dry rub…bitches), I start checking out the scene. Mission number one on any night is to get JPK laid, but tonight has a little bit more riding on it. Excuse that pun. Unfortunately I have not really been doing a good job lately, and it’s his birthday. I swing around; my eyes meet a 6 with 7 potential. Her sinister sneer says I fucking hate you, but her dress says I came here to party. I listen to the dress. I should have heard her sneer.

“Hey why are you so sour?”

“Fuck you, who the fuck are you?”

Game, set, and match. Well ok whatever honest mistake, obviously she is in no mood to talk. I’ll just go buy Jon a beer and…a very tall African American grabs my shoulder.

“Yo what did you say to my girl?”

“I asked her why she was sour”

“Sour?”

“Yeah and she answered me by saying fuck you, so I just assumed I was right”

“Damn she is sour, she’s crying though”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah maybe you should apologize”

            I walk over to where she is surrounded by two girls and Baldy the Birthday Grunge. He turns as I approach:

            “Dude you should just leave.”

            I should leave? Why the fuck should I leave? I called her out, and you know what douchey pooh? I was fucking right, and not just a little right I was SPOT ON MOTHER FUCKER. To add, who responds fuck you to an introduction? Even if someone walked up to me and said: “Hey fuck you faggot”, I would say something like, “yikes, just don’t call me late for dinner” or not respond at all!

If you are going out on Saturday night and just aren’t feeling it for whatever reason, bars should have a little sulky corner for you. That way everyone else in the bar knows I shouldn’t talk to you, I shouldn’t try to perhaps CHEER YOU UP, or even hook you up with my roommate (WHO HAS A FOOT LONG DICK). I feel bad that one crappy instance wound up spoiling the night, but JPK reassured me that he “wouldn’t have been able to get it up anyway”. Whatever, fuck you sour puss and the bald stallion you rode in on.