BAR Fight

Whoa, take it easy, guy. I didn’t mean to spill that shot one of those free drink broads handed out to me on your gray ribbed tank top. That’s not to say I didn’t do it intentionally, I did. I just didn’t plan for it to be interpreted as mean. You see, my buddy—whose girlfriend’s abortion we are currently out celebrating—mentioned in passing how wicked hilarious it would be if I, in my black ribbed tank top, poured that promotional shit all over your beater.

Yeah, that’s right, pal. He did think it was funny. And no, he wouldn’t be laughing if this happened to him, because he’s wearing a white ribbed tank top and the accumulation of moisture wouldn’t be nearly as noticeable. It’s entertaining when bad things happen to people that aren’t you. Haven’t you seen that SVU show? Even my buddy knows that, and he doesn’t even realize how played out white is.

Hey, hold on there, boss. I know you just said CSI is where it’s at and that we need to “throw down,” but I don’t put up my dukes for nobody. Unless you’re talking about Ma Dukes or Pa Dukes. I put them up in my basement apartment whenever they’re in town. There’s not a lot of space, but my sister, God love her, has her hands full with the kids and her fiance—to be frank—is a real piece of work. Sure, it gets a little awkward. Especially when they bring up Trial by Jury, but I make do—because I love them. So you can take your demands that I “bring it” elsewhere. Maybe to Miami. At least until your time of the month is over.

Now, come on, chief. You can’t possibly think I really believe that the cascade of free booze trickling down your recently shaved chest is period blood. I know you don’t have those parts. My buddy who originally made the observation might not, but I said it louder and that’s all that matters. Plus, not for nothing, the drink I threw wasn’t even red. In fact, it was clear. Clear as fuck. Like the namesake of Ice-T if I didn’t have him confused with Ice Cube. Sometimes you just have to suck it up, buckle down, and put the “man” in menstruation. Definitely not something to flop on the floor about.

Yo, holy fucking shit, son. You’re actually bleeding. I thought dude was playing when he walked on over, stabbed you, and yelled “AFV” before running off. How did I not know something was up? The writhing in pain, the gasping for air, the fact that show has nothing to do with forensics. And to think, I once considered myself a real life Elliot Stabler. Now I can see that a receding hairline is the only resemblance.

No, don’t die on me, buddy. That’s right, I said buddy. We are friends now. Not like Facebook friends or anything, I hardly even know you.