nan · cy · ful. [nan-see-fuhl]
- adjective
1. indulging in or influenced by Nancy; "a nancyful mind"
2. characterized or suggested by Nancy
3. having a curiously intricate and delicate quality
4. based on fact, reason, and experience; in other words, keepin' it real.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

This Place Sucks @$$

My friend I were on our way to a bar the other day.  This bar has a decently-sized dance floor and, on that particular night, would be spinnin' some dance-a-licious hip-hop and house music.  If you know anything about me, then you know that I love to dance. I l-o-v-e to dance. I loooooooooove to dance. I  to dance.  I love it, I love it, I love it.

So, anyway, my friend and I were walking into this bar - a supposedly fun bar with supposedly good music in a supposedly hip part of town.  We could tell it was the hip part of town because there were a couple police cars parked nearby.  (Note: That would be a sarcastic remark, my friends.)  Just as we were approaching the entrance, we saw two gentlemen walking out of the fine establishment towards us.  Just as our paths crossed, one of these well-bred young men had the balls to grab my arm (no, he did not gently tap me on the shoulder or ask if he could defile me with his dirty little paws) and bark, "Heeeey!"  Well, he tried to purr, but all I could hear was static and the sound of hopes lining up to be crushed.  I, as the sole owner of my arm and personal space ("Do you see my retractable adamantium claws and the 10' thick barbed wire barricade around me with a 'No Means Hell NO' sign?!?"), yanked my arm back to its rightful place by my side and continued to walk. 

Now, to gain admission into this classy joint, one pays a fee at a register (actually, it's just a metal box manned by a couple of hot chicks) outside of the bar and then crosses a walkway delicately enclosed by an outdoor patio area full of vultures and cigarettes.  This walkway might as well be a raised catwalk with strobe lights and stripper poles.  Basically, whoever is on the walkway better run for her sweet life; these vultures are hungry.  One of these vultures cawed out to me, "Hey sexy!  Nice eye shadow!"  Another one decided that 'twas the season to be jolly and said, "Merry Christmas!" 

"Merry Christmas?!?"  What the bloody, dude.  It was freakin' February.  I don't care how much you've had to drink.  You might forget what year this is, you might forget your manners and your keys; heck, while under the influence, you may even conveniently forget the fact that you've got a girlfriend.  But how the heck do you forget the fact that there ain't any Christmas in February?!?  Whatever.

I run into the bar thinking that I might find a safe haven from these lunatics outside.  Clearly, I am scared out of my wits and sensibilities if I'm thinking that I'll find shelter and refuge inside a bar.  I immediately realize this when another gentlemen brushes up against me and says, "Heeey...nice sweater."  Dude.  I wasn't even wearing a sweater.  I was wearing a zip-up velour hoodie.  However, this error was much more forgivable than that Tourettes syndrome outburst of holiday cheer.

As my wits and senses return to me, I remember that it is not the bar or the club that serves as the refuge; it is the women's restroom!!  Duh!!  So I grab my friend and we "oomph" and "ugh" and "argh" our way through the crowd, wishing that I could trade my retractable adamantium claws for an invisible cloaking device.  Finally, we see the light at the end of the tunnel (literally, the door swings open and the light from the women's restroom gives me the final surge of strength I need to "oomph" the last guy out of my way) and rush into the ladies' room.  Refuge!  At last!

By this time, I've had enough.  I look into the mirror to see if the clock has, indeed, struck midnight and I've already turned into the wicked witch of the West.  Instead, I learn from my friend that it is only 10:(freakin')30, so I angrily shout, "It's too early for me to be in bitch mode, damnit!!"  Another girl in the restroom giggles. She feels my pain.  Man.  It's bad news when the "Bitch Mode Show" airs an hour and a half earlier than regularly scheduled.

And it is because of precious, precious moments like this that I decided to take a little hiatus from the bar/club scene.  *sigh*