Barhoppers Unite

My sister came over this weekend from the remote Arkansas location that she calls home. It's even more redneckish than where I was previously calling home (bumfuck). It's so bad that one of the country clubs in her fine hometown is in a barn. I'm so not making that up. My sister decided that we needed to go down to Dickson Street and go to the bars. Well first of all, I'm not a bar hopping kinda girl. It's just not my thing. I rarely drink. I can't dance. I'm usually in bed by 10:00.

I am so completely out of control. And I'm a wanton hussy.

Anyway, we dressed to go out. I even wore eyeshadow for fuck's sake.

See how I kinda have that "what the hell am I doing look" on my face? I'm pretty sure I maintained that most of the night. I'm also pretty sure that even though my sister and I are supposed to have the same father, there's no way we really do. The only resemblance between us is that we both have girl parts.

When we arrived at the Street of Strong Drink and Sin and started checking out all the bars, we soon realized that we were almost twice as old as most of the people there. Actually, my sister is twice as old as some of them. I still have a few more years to go. But, she's like old and stuff. So whenever we went into a bar, I felt like our table was the geriatric section. In fact, when we were in line to get into one of the bars, the bouncer was checking the IDs of the kids in front of us. But when he saw us, I swear I heard him giggle a little bit, roll his eyes, then just wave us through. If he hadn't been the size of a 3-bedroom house I would have poked him in the eye. Hard.

But the highlight of the evening was that there were "preachers" on the street corners. They had posters and everything. Hand-lettered posters, even. And one was screaming (the preachers not the posters) about how we were all fornicators and adulterers and other amusing nouns. And as hard as I tried, I couldn't help but start laughing when he screamed out fornicators. I mean, it's a funny word to me. One of the posters had something about modesty being godly on it, but I'll bet the guy holding it was checking out every pair of boobies that walked past.

To end the night we stopped at IHOP where we were lovingly assaulted the entire time by our waiter. His name was Bruno. Bruno was tenacious. At one point, Bruno even pulled up a chair and sat at the table with us. Then Bruno tried telling us he was "Bruno, like the guy in the Popeye cartoons." And when I informed the genius that it was BLUTO not BRUNO, he had the audacity to argue with me, and I must say that when he whipped out the argument that he knew it was Bruno because he watched Cartoon Network every night, I was quite flabbergasted. I mean how could I argue with that. I almost succumbed to his power of persuasion, but then I remembered that I was right and he was annoying.

I think the next time my sister comes for a visit, we should just say fuck it and go down to the Senior Center and play bingo. At least we won't be the oldest ones there.

Take Care,

Babs - Party Animal Supreme.