Apr. 30th, 2009

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Going to bed now, but leaving you all with a bit of tasteless humor (which I laughed my ass off at) to get you through the night:

Goodnight, Gracie!
apocalypticbob: (Default)
Went to Smog's school program tonight. He did very well with his square dancing, though I did tease him that he looked constipated while dancing and Jeremy C. would be disappointed. In truth, he was easily one of the best dancers out there, attentive to his partner, guiding her gently with his hand on the small of her back, bowing to her at the end of the dance. It has been long the case that the women in our family are good singers and fair dancers and the men are great dancers and can't carry a tune in a bucket, and it looks as if Smog will continue the trend.

I seated myself on the very uncomfortable, backless wooden bleachers in the very hot, very crowded gym and waited for the program to start. It wasn't two minutes until some guy came and sat next to me. He reeked of beer and mothballs, a strange combination to be sure. The beer was on his breath, it was sweating out of his pores. This was not a person who had tipped back a beer before the program. This was the flop sweat of a chronic drinker. The mothball smell was explained when he opened his VHS camcorder and told me it had been in the attic for 5 years and still worked great.

He seemed vaguely familiar, this beer sweating man. He looked me hard in the face and said, "Don't I know you?" I chuckled and allowed it was possible. He frowned a bit, no doubt searching his spongy brain for that last sober cell, and then exclaimed, "You worked at Kerr-McGee with me!" He introduced himself again, and I shook my poor, bad-with-names-mind until something clicked and I recalled that he had worked for one of the other utilites out there. I made brief polite conversation, sussing out his responses from his slurs. He proceeded to hit on me in his sad, drunken way, and then called over his cousin, who smelled like beer and oranges, which was an improvement over the mothballs, to sit between us when he realized he wasn't getting anywhere with me.

So it is, in small town Oklahoma. You choose between your methheads and your drunks, your punks and your good-ole-boys.

Is it any wonder I'm still single?


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