Come on in!
The bar doors of this establishment have swung open and there is a leather-covered stool right next to me with your name on it.
Pull it up close, take a handful of germ infested mixed bar nuts and let’s talk.
I’ll have a Blue Nirvana with that citrus vodka, and…what? No fancy drinks for you? Just at red stripe and some straight talk eh?
That works too.
Let’s put our arms around each other and tell ourselves how awesome we are and how much fun we have together. How we are a step above those small-minded maniacs who just refuse to understand us.
I’ll make one too many comments about your questionable taste in men and you’ll take a few snipes at me regarding my sometimes bland life and lack of freedom but it’s all good.
Then we’ll shrug and slur something that sounds like “I just call em like I see em” and the fumbling artlessness of our dialog will continue to decline.
Suddenly we will look at our watches and both recognize the proper time for departure is now, before the real fur flies and all that is good and proper about our meeting has evaporated revealing two stupid drunk women with not much to do on a Saturday night.
See you tomorrow!
Seriously though, this all started because my buddy and I were talking a few weeks ago about how great it would be to buy one of those decrepit sandwich vans that loiter around the corners and sell wilted hot dogs and questionable sides and transform it into a drunk bus.
It would have a drop down side and velvet walls inside and we’d just speed up so you could sit at one of the attached bar stools and begin drinking. Like the ice cream truck but for adults. We’d have a little jingle and you’d hear us coming.
People from all over the land would run when they heard the pleasant song announcing our arrival and would ask for money to come down to get their drink of choice. And of course there would be a massive bull skeleton head hanging from the top and a huge sign that said “GET DRUNK HERE”.
It’s a simple dream.