getting a Fendi baguette
Hello, darlings. A friend of mine has requested that I post my experiences in bar-pool (BAH-pool for you Bostonians). By bar-pool, I mean pool played in a bar, not barbox pool (which implies Intense Competition and Serious Players). This will be an occasional Monday Special, when I’m too lazy to do the public a service by posting something informational and educational.
Today, I am happy to share an unprecedented leap of progress in the program I call Low-Calorie Asshole.
This weekend, we went to a very nice Irish pub mostly full of wonderful people (or full of mostly wonderful people). I had a BLT, and thank you, you master chefs, so very, VERY much. They didn’t just toast the bread; they painted it with butter and grilled it. I love watching butter being applied with a paintbrush. That’s real art—and very sexy. Might I also add that the bartenders were kind enough to be extremely liberal with the alcohol? Our libation of choice was Malibu & Pineapple—very frou-frou, I admit, but, you know, sometimes it’s nice to be girly. I like my men like my alcohol—strong, sweet, and under an umbrella. After the third drink, the bartenders chucked the small rocks glasses (8 oz.) and started serving us our liquor lovelies in pint glasses (16 oz.—now we’re cooking with gas!).
Yes, my friend and I (the other small Asian girl, and although we look nothing alike, people often say we are sisters), are mutants. We have none of the usual Asian talents of math, science, filial piety, courtesy, perseverance, modesty, ambition, (not even the usual Asian names of Jennifer, Grace, or Vivian) and all that other good stuff. We do, however, have the ability to hold alcohol. Not that we’re really happy about it. While my whole family could get buzzed on four tablespoons of Heineken, I’ve got to go on a date with Captain Morgan.
Anyways, with enough liquid courage, we decided to take a whack at the pool table (and when my friend plays, I really mean “whack”). We proposed a doubles game with the current King of the Hill, a young-ish guy. He wins the first game although it takes an agonizing 12 innings. We win the second, in a slightly more palatable nine innings. He’s a bit ticked off (girlfriend was watching) and says, “Let’s play one-on-one, I play better that way.” Odd reasoning, but all righty. My friend, who’s easily bored, and often the center of male attention, hands me the cue and prances off. Looks like I get to play. Yay.
I play and it’s one of those strange times when I play—fairly well. Even after four cocktails. Or maybe because of the four cocktails? Whatever. Suffice it to say that he did not get a shot (this has been known to happen occasionally, especially when the planets are in alignment, I’m playing on a seven-foot table, there is a half moon in the clear night sky, and a full bottle of Ketel One). Here comes the following conversation, with commentary.
“You probably don’t know this, but you’re pretty good.”
Ladies Who Shoot Stick, I must ask you, is this not one of the most common lines you hear in a bar? Now, in my previous incarnation as Asshole Supreme, I would have answered one of the following:
a). “Would you like to make a wager?”
b). “Maybe it’s not because I’m pretty good, but, rather, that you’re pretty bad?”
c). “Yes, I do know this.” (Asshole Supreme with Megalomaniac Special answer of choice.)
As it was, I was going to be good and stick to being a Low-Calorie Asshole for the sake of my friends (of which I don’t have very many, so I try really hard to keep the ones I have), so I limited myself to, “Thank you.” (You may applaud. Yaaaaay!) But, as you know, with me, the fun never ends.
“I’ve never been beaten by a girl before.”
Ladies Who Shoot Stick, this has got to be the commonest line you hear in a bar. On my shoulder, the devil in me offered the following options:
a). “You must not play a lot of pool.”
b). “If you like whips and chains, it’s a great experience.”
c). “Oh honey, I usually don’t tell this to strangers, but, I’m really a man.”
Once again, I stuck to my guns, batted my (non-existent) eyelashes and said, “Oh, really?” (Applaud, dammit, APPLAUD!) Surely, I thought, that’s it. This is the end. Just roll up in a big ball and die.
“You must be a pro or something, because I play really good.”
Ladies Who Shoot Stick, what the hell is this phrase? Is a compliment a compliment when it comes from a Delusional Narcissistic Megalomaniac—who is not me? By now, the Malibu & Pineapple was just begging me to unleash one of the following:
a). “Dude, YOU SUCK.”
b). “You probably don’t know this, but, dude, YOU SUCK.”
c). “Oh honey, I usually don’t tell this to strangers, but, dude, YOU SUCK.”
If there is a God, you know I’ve earned my damn angel wings by now because all I could cough out was, “Not a pro by any definition. The world has thousands of great players.” (Angelic choir sings while you applaud.) I felt warm and fuzzy inside, and a little lightheaded as a majestic light shone beatifically down upon me and I could hear the great Pool God say, “Well done, my child. For your selfless act, I will grant you a triple-shimmed Diamond nine-footer, complete with light, Brunswick Centennials, and solid mahogany rack. I will include lifetime and hereafter warranties. And free entry to the Derby City Classic for all eternity. And a bowl of ice cream.” I was ascending towards the clouds and being crowned with a shimmering halo when:
“Like who? Who in L.A. is going to beat me?”
I fell back to earth. How now, brown cow? The only things left for me to say would probably end in thrown billiard balls, broken cues (forgive me noble house cues, you will always be in my heart), smashed glasses (don’t waste the liquor, there are sober kids in India), chunks of his girlfriend’s hair lying on the ground interwoven with his broken teeth, and some ridiculous amount of bail even Bill Gates wouldn’t be able to post. This apocalyptic confrontation had to end. There was only one way out.
“So sorry. No speak Engrish—and no habla espanol.”