The following was written in a bar on my cell phone, drunk and unhappy.  For those of you in Lexington, “The Tin Roof” on S. Limestone is a good place to go on Wednesday nights to see exactly what I’m talking about.  Maybe it should read: “good.”

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THIS BAR IS FULL OF DOUCHEBAGS

Where there’s not pastel polos, there’s button up longsleaves. Collars
popped, egos out and daddy’s money taking care of the tab.

There are three blondes for every brunette and those latter look about
them knowing–or thinking–they came ill-prepared.  They shriek like
injured animals as they recognize those of their kind.

They drink domestic drafts from plastic cups and savor each drop
as if the golden color was indicative of the value therein. One says
something to another, they laugh and clap hands as if in celebration
of their futility.

And I sit witnessing it all at the bar.

My head shakes quite often.

Do they know that they’re clones? Perhaps thinking something like this
is against their programming, and to suggest that they aren’t
programmed in some way is nothing short of laughable. The word
“bra” as in “Sup, bra?” can just be heard along with “dude” over the
music that only barely has more substance than those listening. Every
now and then one can hear “ohmagawd” from the females, but their
loudest output is their feral cries of recognition. By far.

Occasionally, I’ll receive a curious glance as if I’m one of the more
intelligent animals that has been put in one of the common cages by
mistake. Maybe that sounds unfair. Maybe it would be fair if they
weren’t so stupidly drunk and I weren’t miserably so. But looking
around, seeing one that came out of a mold identical to the mold of
the one next to them and so on, I’d be doing myself a disservice not
to consider myself above them in some way. You would too.

It becomes too much and I stand. It’s as if this place has filled me
with so much loathing that I need to relive the pressure. But really,
I’ve drank too much and I just need to go to the bathroom. But
nevermind. There’s something bitterly satisfying about the idea of my
outrage solidifying into something tangible and that it needs to pass
through the tip of my dick.  Douchebags.

There’s a young man at the urinal in front of me talking on his cell
phone as he takes care of business. He’s wearing sandals. I consider
this. That’s the thing about proper footware: location, location,
location.

I step up to make my contribution and notice that the same bit of
doggerel has been written on the wall several times. It goes, “Why are
you looking up here? The joke’s in your hand.” Once and it might have
been funny. Six times? Tiresome.

There is group after group between me and my barstool. All of them
amazed and astonished by the exploits of those around them. They rock
and reel, gyrating into me and not apologizing for their antics. This
is, after all, their domain. If it weren’t for the bathrooms, they
might be marking their territory. Good thing for the bathrooms.

I sigh.

I’ve seen where my barstool is. And who’s in the vicinity.

Near my stool is one of those blonde clones. Pretty? Yes, but pretty
just like all the rest of them. Pretty like a sunset on any other day
of the week. Pretty like a painting you’ve passed by on a daily basis for
the last ten years. Meh.

And next to her, sitting in my stool, is one of the spiked haired Ralph
Lauren doppelgangers, drunk on his drink and drunk on himself.

Fuck it. I’m going home.