The question threw me off.
“What’s that on your butt?”
What’s what on my butt? (Which of course made me laugh) How often do you get to say “What’s what on my butt?” while not quoting an Eddy Murphy lyric?
To the professional eye it looks like a scar.
Because it is.
It’s a scar.
Did I ever tell you about the time I got jabbed in the butt by a candle holder?
Technically I wasn’t “jabbed” per se. I fell off a three foot platform and landed butt first on a table that had a multi prong metal candle holder on it. And I didn’t really “fall” so much as whilst commingled among America’s finest drunk and disorderly, I was shoved backwards off a platform and landed on my ass on the table below, atop of said candle holder.
You know how in the movies, when someone falls three feet and crashes through a table on his back, splitting the table in two? Yeah. It was totally nothing like that. I did however crash through a flimsy hand rail, desperately trying to hold on while getting thrown backwards, doing cartoon Scooby Doo mad hand swims in the air, to no available salvation, and landed on my ass approximately three feet below, knocking the table over, with a candle holder now jabbed in my butt.
Try checking out THAT wound with a compact mirror in the ladies bathroom under a dull flickering fluorescent light.
Luckily the metal candle holder just ripped the fatty flesh of my butt where it meets my inner thigh. I mean like 1/4 inch deep slices perfectly matching the tongs of the candle holder. I should have gotten stitches but I didn’t. Come to think of it I don’t remember what happened after that. Probably just pulled my dress down and got another shot of tequila. I was in a bar after all.
BUT...
I do remember earlier that day when the Arizona Viking Queen said, “C’mon! Let’s go! It’ll be fun! Don’t be lame!”
You betcha. Would hate to be lame.
Tonight...
Friday night. Friends from LA are in town but true to LA fashion they’re being uncommunicative. I’ve text them about four times now only to receive one word uninformative texts back. Forget it. I’m staying home instead and surfing apartments in my PJ’s, microwaving frozen chicken enchiladas.
I had a hell of a night last night. Wanna know why? I was told for the one-millionth time while at work to go fuck myself.
Drunks. They’re fun.
Yeah. No.
A lot of people come to Vegas and don’t know how to act. Their mentality is, “Whoooooo!!!! I’m in Vegas!!!! Fuck you only I matter!!!! Whooooooo!!!! Bitch mix me a drink!!!! Whooooooo!!!! Bitch, I’m the hottest sexiest motherfucker here!!!! Whoooooo!!! Where’s my fucking drink!!!! Whooooooo!!!! Bitch!!!! Whooooo!!!! Where’s my table, bitch!!!! Whooooooo!!!!”
Ghetto.
I’m all business to slobs like that. I don’t smile. I talk very calm. I’m super respectful and directly to the point. And boy do they hate that. And so for the one-millionth time another low rent slob told me to fuck off for ignoring his machismo.
This guy was about 50-something. My age. How sad. And he was trying to flirt behind his wife’s back. I didn’t respond. I kept it professional. And he got mad. He then started screaming in Spanish for about 5 minutes but made sure to say “Fuck you!” to me in clear English. Twice.
Men of a certain age.
Of a certain culture?
It’s exhausting.
What makes it even worse is when they cry. And isn’t that what temper tantrums really are, screams of self pity? I hate seeing men cry.
Why?
Because I don’t cry.
Well...
Not in public anyway. Except when my dad died, and when Rick died, and on occasion when I’m drunk on wine but I do that in the privacy of my own home behind closed doors (usually) so that doesn’t really count, and then there was that one time when the Arizona Viking Queen accidentally (on purpose) slammed my fingers in the car door after I called her Coyotes a bunch of fat junior figure skaters. Yeah I totally don’t take that back, sister. YOU might come from the land of ice and snow, sweetheart, but your hockey team might as well change their uniforms into bee costume tights and tutus while proclaiming in thick gay German accents, “Valhalla, I am coming!” every time they randomly torpedo the puck into - lord only knows what the fuck they’re aiming at.
And while I was totally blameworthy of being stabbed in the butt by a candle holder, my acknowledgment of being guilty by association on that particular night is far more adult than these men who just “Whooooo!!!!” all up and down Las Vegas Blvd.
That’s right. Guilty by association. I shouldn’t be the only one with a scar.
SOoooooo I guess what I’m trying to say here is, my dear Arizona Viking Queen, I want to stab you in the ass. When the day only rewards bad behavior, something must balance the universe. Like when Phoebe was pregnant and craving meat, but she’s a vegetarian, so Joey, a meat eater, didn’t eat meat that day, to balance out the universe. I’ve thought it over. Clearly. See how long this blog is? I’ve done the math. As in literally take a sharp instrument and stab you in the ass. Because that’s the only way to make us now square and right with the universe.
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