Time to pity me. On Friday while my best buds were in Daytona celebrating the advent of the racing season, I was sitting in a legal seminar as the state bar requires us to attend from time to time. And not only was it LEGAL in nature, it was about freaking bankruptcy. So, I spent 6 freaking-want-to-stab-myself-in-the-eye-with-a-fork hours learning about changes in bankruptcy laws. Jealous?
So, I'm crammed into this ballroom in downtown Atlanta with about 200 of my closest legal pals, sitting ass cheek to ass cheek cause god forbid they waste one precious money-making inch. I "listen" to some dude drone on and on about an area of law that I intend to never practice again. Good times.
Well, by the time lunch rolled around, I was visualizing stripping down to what the good Lord gave me and running up and down the aisle screaming "I've got your Chapter 13 Plan in my pants!!!"
Needless to say, I thought that spending lunch eating rubber chicken with these numbnuts might possibly mean the end of my legal career (or at least the end of my life free of straight jackets).
So, free lunch or no free lunch, I thought it best to venture out. And this, gentle readers, is where I made a tactical error.
You see, previously mentioned hotel is in the part of "nobody-comes-here-except-tourists" Atlanta. My luncheon options were limited. However, I spotted the Hard Rock Cafe a couple of doors down and thought, "well, a $12 salad is still better than rubber chicken with the brain dead bankruptcy bar" so I journeyed forth into tourista land.
Now, let's be clear - I've never been to a Hard Rock Cafe but I clearly expected overpriced food, tacky decor, loud rock music and JoeBob/BettyJane from out-yonder who is just in the city for a spell. Fair nuff.
I took a seat at the bar which overlooked the whole restaurant and at noon wasn't crowded (apparently Atlanta tourists dont' drink until a more respectable hour and therefore are real Sallies). Well, I ordered a quesidilla (no one really bought the salad line, did they?) and began to enjoy the "ambience".
Now, let's talk music, shall we? The name of the place is HARD rock....I get the Foo Fighters, I get the Green Day....but Will Smith getting jiggy wid it? Not so much. But whatever floats their hard rocking boat.
Do you feel the turning point coming? Cause it's a coming!
The waitres brings me the Hard Rock version of a nouveau, art-deco quesidilla and I prepare to strap on the old feebdag.
And then I hear the Village People. The old familiar strains of Y.M.C.A. that makes everyone under the age of 50 throw their arms in the air with spastic gay glee.
Still. I'm good.
But then I realize that 3 waitresses have taken all the surrounding bar stools from my side and lined them right behing my back so that they are facing the entire restaurant down below. Then they proceed to shimmy on up those bar stools so that they can lead the restaurant in the Hard Rock version of the Y.M.C.A. which I swear included a little shoutout to the Batusie. Said waitresses who will now be referred to as those Fucking Whores, were doing their prearranged boogie right behind my fat ass.
Now in general, I'm not against an exuberant display of disco Sally. I'm cool. I'm all J.J. and "DY-NO-MITE!" . But give me a freaking break. I DO mind when said retro-doings are occurring directly behing my broad Batusie butt so that the whole restaurant patronage can watch me taking my first big old bite of my meal. I could practically hear the calls of "Who gave the Fattie guacomole? Was that really wise?"
I silently stewed and thought "I'll just eat my $20 lunch and get the hell out of Dodge". No worries.
But of course that was when the junior high cheerleading squad just off the incest bus from butt-fuck Georgia pulled in for some fun. Apparently, a little event they like to call Cheer Georgia was happening and every 70 pound, 13 year old felt compelled to dine out in their flannel pajama bottoms and their fake birkenstocks. They, of course, were all about the atmosphere but even these little prepubscent monsters refrained from dancing. Unlike the dork in the short sleeve dress shirt sitting next to me at the bar. Seriously, I wasn't sure he needed medical intervention or not but decided he was simply getting his groove on.
Still no worries. I'll just eat my $30 meal a little quicker and retreat to the safe dry world of bankruptcy. (And right now, if you can hear Revrend Lovejoy going "Constancy....sweeeeeeet constancy" in your head, give yourself a gold star cause I'm a hearing it)
What was the breaking point? Well, let me tell you. It appeared in the form of a gaggle of college boys who joined me at the bar. They all decided it was "beer-thirty somewhere! wooohoo!" and franky, I gave them a mental "attaboy!" cheer.
However, to my dismay I quickly learned this gaggle was a passle of "country cousin come to town" kinda rubes. They all got really, really excited that there was beer on tap. Lots of high-fiving and "git-r-dun's". But then the startling moment of exultation! They realized that the bar had.....BUDWEISER ON TAP! MY GOD! THE JOY! THE SHEER UNADULTERATED JOY! I MEAN REALLY WHEN DO YOU EVER SEE THAT! WE NEED TO HOLLER! WE NEED TO SHOUT OUR JOY OF DISCOVERY!
That's right, gentle reader, these butt buddies got excited about a Bud being on tap. I haven't seen such celebration since the wall came down.
So, as I was trying to de-ass the area, they ordered about 7 buds.....and 1 Long Island Iced Tea (I didn't spot the token closeted gay guy but he must have been there somewhere).
That was the proverbial straw. I made my way back to the sweet, dry world of law and scolded myself for not taking the free lunch.
And worst of all? The damn seminar didn't even serve any after lunch cookies. Cheap ass bankruptcy bastards. I shall never stray again.