I am, at this very minute, writing this entry a tad bit enebriated.
I’m such a bad role model. Seriously. Kids, don’t be like Weetabix. She’s trailer trash and spits on pictures of Jesus.
So Carissa and I went back to the place where I got so completely quashed back in, oh, February or March. I’m too wacked to look up the link. I think it’s an entry titled “Drunken Debauchery a Week late” or something. Go to the older page and find it. I’m not doing all the work!
So we went to the retro bar and I said, “Ok, I’m not going to get poured out of this bar this time. I’m going to be a good girl, and stick with Malibu and Diet Coke.”
You know. The drink of trailer trash princesses everywhere.
And they serve them in these little light up cups that are all glowy and stuff and make you think that perhaps they are magical, perhaps they are embued with a certain kind of mystical thing, instead of coconut flavored rum.
I feel this incredible urge to now say “God, y’all, I am sooooooooo drunk.”
So, we went to the retro bar and then proceeded to have lots and lots of fun. And we bumped into the exact same cast and crew from the previous adventure at this bar, because Carissa knows nearly everyone on the planet and makes friends very easily. And I was all grooving out on the funkadelic tunes. “I think I love You” by the Partridge Family was a good one. I think “Car Wash” was good too. And I called my friend in Madison to find out what track 14 of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack was… we knew that it was KC and the Sunshine Band, but we couldn’t remember the song title.
Boogie Shoes, just in case you were wondering. So you don’t have to, you know, stumble into the bar bathroom and phone your friend in Madison who has no fucking clue what the hell you’re talking about.
You have no idea how intensely I’m concentrating upon spelling everything correctly right now. There will be no html in this entry because that shit’s just too fucking hard.
My tongue feels very large. Damn Malibu. Damn tasty delicious Malibu in the glowy magical cups.
So, we’re grooving out and singing with all of the rocking tunes and then Carissa notices that two girls across the bar are looking at us with disgust and laughing. And mocking. And when we were doing the hand jive from Grease with, you know, the hand jive song, they were mockingly doing the hand jive. And that shit pissed me right off, because I had thought that the one with short hair was pretty. I then, right there, decided that they were upset because they didn’t like to see a curvy round girl having fun at a pretty person bar. Carissa thought that maybe they didn’t like her new dress that she had just gotten that very day, and, I might add, looked divine and very very cool. That wasn’t it, so I’m going with fat prejudice.
God damn skinny bitches. I hate them now. I hate them all to hell. I hope they get skin cancer and die.
And I might add now that they were so overtly tan that under the black light, they appeared almost like negatives, except that the whites of their eyes glowed and their teeth. It was disturbing, actually. I mean, it’s June 1st and we live in Green Bay Wisconsin. No one believes that you’re that fucking tan from your active outdoorsiness, so just get over yourself.
Bitches.
So, anyway, right then I decided that I wanted to kick their fucking skinny bitch asses.
Yeah. I know. You ought to tremble in fear. You should have seen my wicked mean face that I was making, too. It made Carissa laugh because she was so very afraid.
Or sore afraid. That’s from the Bible, when the shepards looked up at the angel in the chapter of Luke, I think. I don’t know. It’s a good thing that both of my great grandparents are dead now because they’d be very disappointed that the paraochial school education they paid for went so very much to waste. But “sore afraid” sounds much more afraid than “so afraid”, so let’s stick with that, shall we?
Anyway, Carissa then decided that we should leave because I was totally going to kick their skinny asses up and down the block. I was even doing the Karate Kid crane thing to show how serious I was. I mean, I watch Buffy. I know some moves. And whatever I don’t know, I figure that I’ll make up with sheer power. Crush them like little sundried tomatoes.
So we walked out of there and I wanted to just punch the blond one, but Carissa stopped me from doing it because they weren’t worth jail time. But she asked them what they were looking at and the blonde one said “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I walked out ahead because the V-shaped very drunk guy in the lifeguard tank top wanted to dance with me and I was pretty sure that he was going to urp, so I fled. Carissa said that the other snotty chick just looked at her friend like “Well, what are you going to say… you’re busted.” I’m glad I didn’t hear it, or there would have been serious retribution.
Don’t get me wrong… I was built for comfort, not attack. But don’t piss me off when my bloodstream is tainted with the Malibu. Because I’ll trounce your ass.
And then I told Carissa that I loved her. Which is a joke because last time we went to that bar, it ended with me drunkenly telling her that I loved her and she was my best friend. At least I’m honest when I’m drunk.
Anyway. I’m going to bed now. I just wanted to share what complete skank hos those girls were.
Skinny bitches. I hate ’em.
