Saturday, March 11, 2006

084: TEENAGE GIRLS WITH NEON CLAWS

Welcome to the never ending rant that has been my life for the past nine months. Today I'll be ranting about me attracting the wrong kind of people, most notably - teenage girls.

Boiling point was last nite at a strange place called Q Bar. Tucked away in the concrete jungle of the northern suburbs, Q bar boasts something like 30 pool tables and the bustiest barmaids this side of Bell Street Station.

Our night had begun like many others - a logistical nightmare. Getting my ever expanding click to meet at one place was becoming increasingly difficult (more on this in a later blog). Once inside I basked in the smokey atmosphere and admired the local grease balls around me as they absent mindedly played pool.

"Just how flammable is hair product?"

I pondered, remembering an unfortunate incident from school involving my heavily gelled hair and an open flame.

And then it happened - the looks, the stares the remarks. Suddenly I could feel the same kind of gut wrenching fear I felt a few weeks back in my new bouncing job. I spent the night harassed by a group of girls who sent me fleeing behind the bar (SEE: Entry 79)

Hoda alerted me to the situation. I feigned surprise (I often do this), and tried to think of something else. I turned my attention to the two middle eastern pimps who had come out looking to find a bride. Good luck with that.

Teenage girls still looking. The largest of the group, who resembled a leather clad walrus kept batting her eyelids at me. She shifted in her seat. All of her jiggled. Then her posse of whores returned from the bar, martinis in hand.

"Oh god…"

I tried to hide in my jacket, but those venomous women had seen me and are already undressing my tiny little body with their eyes. This is bad.

Just then, Trip sat up. He started talking. My terror blocked out what he had said. I finally tuned in. Turns out he's ready to leave.

"All right!!!"

Slowly making my my through a sea of tables and abandoned glasses, we headed for the exit. Sweet, sweet salvation. Hoda behind me, no doubt giving any woman who looked at me a death glare. God bless her protective nature. I tried to think good thoughts. For some reasons all I could come up with was Waffles. I love Waffles so much. We finally made it outside.

"I can see the stars!!"

I pictured those teenage girls, all of them scantily clad and bathed in sweat and second hand smoke. Flanking their gargantuan leader in the leather. Jabba the hut never looked more appealing. I was out and I had escaped their neon claws once again. I always do. But still there was, and always will be that one day they will accost me at the jukebox or by the mens room!

I strolled with the gang for a little bit and said my farewells. Hoda and I walked to my car, and deep down I knew that it wasn’t over. Not yet. I simply have 'teenage girl appeal'.
I'll never find anyone of my own because I'll be too busy struggling to breathe, buried under a mountain of cellulite and boob tubes. A shiver ran down my spine as I drove off into the stark, Thomastown night.
Pray for me.

the end.








1 Comments:

Blogger Mel said...

I am actually worried for your safety - there are few things worse than being accosted like some latter day New Kids On The Block by rampaging tweens - ewwwww
Don't worry, just carry Mace - seems to deter them long enough for you to make a jaunty escape.

2:12 PM  

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