Homo With A Gun: A Cautionary Tale for Drunken Dudes
Well, after my rant against wild women it was only a matter of time before I chastised drunken dudes for similar indecencies. The problem is that while women are often the most shocking drunks, men are the worst. Nine out of ten times (based on a highly scientific study of asking bartenders who's worse), men come prepared to act like complete jackasses. We essentially prepare ourselves for jackassiveness.
Special events like birthdays, bachelor parties, and winning the big game are all seen as permission to romp around sloppy and free-spirited. I can't say that I haven't downed a few pitchers, or mind erasers and roamed the streets on the verge of puking or fighting myself, harassing semi-sober citizens all the way. But I do try to keep it within the boundaries of "decent-indecent" society and often stay away from my neighborhood, co-workers and people who can identify me. Nevertheless a jackass is a jackass. And karma is a bitch.
As Lonnie and I were walking home last night from a beautiful pour of Gran Duque d'Alba we were shouted at by revelers at an outdoor bar:
"Hey homos... Those guys look like a bunch of homos."
Now, I can tell you Lonnie and I look like anything but homos (not that there is anything wrong with that). Lonnie is missing a tooth, has a beard and calls his guitar an ax. I have stylish glasses, well groomed hair, a very neatly ironed striped shirt and colorful Camper shoes. OK, now I know who they were yelling at.
Lonnie takes it personally; I don't. Lonnie walks over and flicks the guy in the face after the dude dared him to. Shouting ensues. We walk away. The dude's friend starts tailing us and yelling that it's his buddy's birthday. BINGO, jackassery.
Lonnie moons the two and one of the guys confronts me:
"What do you have in your pocket?"
I'm dumbfounded. I tell him I'm not showing him shit and "this is not going to happen." The latter statement reminds me of some teen movie tough guy refusing to fight because it'll be the third strike against him. But I have no idea what this drunken douche is talking about.
In retrospect, when I walked back to retrieve Lonnie, I may have reached in my pocket to make sure I hadn't dropped my wallet. The dude believed I was pretending to have a gun. Oh yeah. So he chases me down and says, "I'm not afraid to go to prison." Tough words from Loco MoCo (Montgomery County, richest suburb of D.C.) confronting a "gay" gunslinger.
Anyway, I decline the dance of douchbaggery and walk on. I wasn't trashed, celebrating or trashed-celebrating. But, really, this was completely unnecessary. They looked like absolute fools. Let's tone it down a notch, guys. Or, at the very least, keep it confined to fellow revelers and rowdy bars or strip clubs.