Random Scraps of Fantastic

Is it just me, or does that title sound like the name of a rock band?

I laid low this past weekend (not entirely by my choosing, but oh well), so there’s no got-drunk-and-streaked-through-city-hall stories for you to shake your heads at; not this week, at least. I thought I’d take this opportunity to catch up on some small stories and postscripts related to recent blogs of mine that haven’t been reported yet.

• The St. Patrick's Day Massacre – I had thought that I left the Irish cap from the picture behind before we left Shannon’s apartment that afternoon; I distinctly remembered leaving it on a doorknob in her place. But, apparently, I was wearing it all day. I know this now because:
  
  At some point in the day an unknown trespasser kicked down Shan’s front door; he or she then closed it again without taking anything from her apartment. When I came by that night to see if anyone was home and found the door locked (oblivious to the damage done by the force-in, or the footprint left on the door), I left the hat on the doorknob outside and walked off to my car. So some of my friends, upon returning to her place and finding the scene, assumed it was me who kicked in the door. Let’s be real, though; I’m not saying I would never kick a door in, but I definitely would never leave incriminating evidence behind. Even when I’m drunk, I’m not that stupid.
• B-Day – When Tony saw me heading for the bathroom, he rushed in and found me at the sink and the random victim of my digestive acrobatics standing there in shock. Looking to keep the guy calm, he said, “I’m sorry man; it’s his birthday.” Then, as he was turning to leave behind me (I was getting kicked out, of course), he pointed to the stack of white t-shirts that the bathroom attendant was selling, and suggested, “You should probably grab a shirt off him.”
• 5 Nights in Tampa – One of our customers (“L-Boogie”), who I usually only see at the conference, is a tall, leggy blonde with large breasts who is a lot of fun to hang out with—not like that, you heathens; she’s a married woman (shut up TJ). Last year, my birthday was the last day of the conference. So that night she and some other friends of ours took me out on the town in Austin, TX. At one bar, I was talking to one of my coworkers when I felt a tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw that L-Boogie had a shot glass full of liquor sitting neatly in the cleavage of her tank-top. And all she said was, “Let’s go.” When I said she was fun, you had no idea, right? Fast-forward to this past March, and the St. Patrick’s Day reception on the first day of the conference. She was wearing a business suit, the skirt of which was blissfully short. “Long enough to cover the subject, but short enough to keep it interesting” was how one of my friends put it. My department manager was talking with her; he called me over and asked, “Have you met [L-Boogie]?” The green beer told me to glance down at her chest and say, “You better BELIEVE it!” But I remembered that this was the man who authorizes my paycheck, so I bit my lip, smiled at her, and said, “Yes, we’ve met.”
• 
  5 Nights in Tampa – The favorite pastime at “The Club” was a touch screen game called “Wordster” (I know this sounds odd in an establishment that features dancing, nearly-naked women, but don’t underestimate the addictiveness of video puzzle games). TJ, the manager (what’s good “Big Poppa Ike”?), one of the bar regulars, Sage, a few of the other dancers, and I would all sit around the machine scrambling to come up with words that we had learned in 12th grade English class. When I would take a seat in one of the barstools in front of the game, it wouldn't be long before one of the dancers playing would climb up onto my lap. I honestly didn’t notice it while it was going on—partly because of the Makers & Cokes that S-Money was mixing, and partly because I was intently focused on the game (okay, now it’s even sounding a little sad to me, too)—but a majority of the time that I was seated, I had a dancer sitting in my lap. A week or so later, while talking with TJ and looking back on the trip, I came to a realization: “I was like the strip club Santa Claus.” I owe him another bottle of Parrot Bay.
• O.P.P. in V.I.P. – While standing at the bar with my friends, I noticed an attractive girl walk by who I had first met months ago. She gave me her number, but drunken a** that I am, I never called her. Wanting to be sure it was her, but unsure of how she would react to seeing a jerk who never called her, I yelled out her name and then quickly looked in the other direction. She turned around to see who had called her, thus confirming that (a.) I had correctly remembered her name, and (b.) I am a 29 year old child. Later in the night I saw her again, and this time I actually talked to her (novel idea, I know). Luckily for me, she’s a really nice girl (or she took pity on me because she thought I was mentally-challenged) and she gave me her number once again.

‘Tis all for now. Don’t forget to tip your servers.