After MixedSignalGirl left, I moved up to the bar. I had myself a yummy Weihenstephaner Hefeweissbier Dunkel (173) and thought up ways for the night to get worse than it already was.
My mind jumped to one thing, one possible event that would be the perfect cherry to sit atop this fucked up sundae of a Saturday. My mind jumped back to what had happened on August 19th. The Day The Meteor Hit.
But hey! I figured, if I don't go to Rich O's then I'm at least safe from that. It's a zillion to one against, but why take that chance? I ordered another Weihenstephaner (189) while I contemplated my next move. I didn't want to stay at Buckhead's for fear that MixedSignalGirl would come back and catch me in my lie about my "plans" for the night. I wasn't ready to just go home. I tried to get in touch with RealTrainGirl but that didn't work. Fourth Street Live was not an option for the same reason as Buckhead's. Ditto for the Cumberland or BBC brewpubs.
So I went to Browning's. They never had any beer that I really liked, but I recently heard or read that they had a vanilla stout. Now that sounded intriguing, so I went.
All they had on tap was their regular stuff. Oh well. I left and walked the short distance to the Bluegrass taproom.
Again, just their regular stuff. Plus they were having a poker tournament or something and the place was packed to the gills. Oh well. I left and went to Rich O's. Meteor be damned.
I'm always complaining about Rich O's being full of strangers. Last night it wasn't that full, but the utter strangeness of the people who were there more than made up for their lack of numbers.
At the bar we had HippyOldCouple. They looked like they had passed out during Woodstock, woken up last night, and walked into Rich O's. Plus, they'd decided to eat at the bar and that always pisses me off.
At the island, there were three couples. Not much to say about them except that they sucked because they wouldn't leave.
In the living room area, well it's kind of hard to describe. Actually it's not. The words white trash are a perfect description. You know the kind. The 100-pound meth addict guys and their 400-pound girlfriends? A white trash couple had taken possession of the sofa, another had the loveseat. And in the throne, reigning supreme, was JabbaTheHo.
Look, I don't really care if you weigh 400 pounds. Maybe you have a medical reason for it, or maybe your boyfriend likes big girls. I also don't care if you dress like a slut. Sometimes I even like it.
But please, for the love of all that is holy, pick one! Either weigh 400 pounds, or dress like a slut. Please don't do both. Think of the children! Think of me! Show some fucking compassion!
As a general rule, the more skin you have, the less you should show. So if you have, say, enough to repair the Superdome's roof several times over, you should probably look into getting one of those nice burqas that are all the rage in the Middle East.
Oh yeah. Beer. I had some. Specifically I had a yummy Baltika 6 (224). I sat in the red room, by myself for a few minutes until SpikeBoy arrived and gave me someone to complain about women and white trash to.
After a while a bunch of PBDs came in. They were also forced into the red room by the crowd of stranger-than-usual strangers. I got a little claustrophobic, but I had myself a Guinness (934) while I engaged in an odd little text-message conversation with VigilanteGirl. My Guinness was yummy too. All of the beer I had last night was yummy in fact.
When I left Rich O's, I was halfway planning to go see VigilanteGirl, but decided instead to just get some White Castles and call it a night.
