INFESTATION OF RABBITS

Really, I should’ve remembered – I live in a city with piles of young twenty-something party-wasps. Just sheer bucket loads of self-indulgent borderline alcoholic white people from elsewhere.
Should I stress that they are “entitled”? Or is that clear already?

The less said about “doing shots” and “make me something with Blue Berry Vodka” the better. There is no doubt but that some of them technicoloured significantly before midnight.
Yes, I am glad I’m not in the bar-back’s shoes – and I hope for his sake that his footwear is less leaky than mine. Those bathrooms must have been a right sight by closing.
It is unlikely that those people tipped well-enough to make it worthwhile.
Their presence was far less rewarding than they may have thought.


BUNNY-CON

After Santa-con and Leprechaun-con, comes Easter. And a bunch of single desperate “let’s get drunk and hump” young college grads of the “we’re white and wonderful” type decided to put on bunny ears, poofy tails, and git down in my neighborhood.
Boruch Hashem that rabbits cannot hop uphill far enough to pee or puke in my doorway. It was bad enough that several dozen of them flooded the bar where I was quietly having a drink.
I had hoped, just hoped, that things wouldn’t get out of hand – they usually veer close to doing so on Saturday night – but my hopes were cruelly dashed.
Nay, my hopes were slashed open, guts ripped out, obscene things done with penile implements. Then spat open, the bloody cadavers held up to ridicule and flying tomatoes, and finally dismembered by a mob of howling savages!
Alas, I weep over your brutalized corpses, my hopes.

The most grievous offense was the blonde screaming. Party blonde. Very very self-impressed party-blonde.
THREE OF THEM! High-pitched, piercing, screechy, and utterly moronic.
Bad enough that they used the phrase OMG as punctuation – it is better than the 'F' word, I suppose – but did they HAVE to sing along with Sir Mixalot and his fetish for big black bottoms? The Oakland Booty song is NOT a musical number that should be yelled out by anybody, let alone a large group of entirely white young adults who would sully their knickers if they met a black rapper. And his big-bottied hos.
In a crime-ridden neighborhood of Oakland. At night.

Jeesh!

The three women right next to me yelled their vacant little blonde lungs out.
I would’ve vastly preferred it if they had gone up to the stage and joined the happy rutting frenzy there. But nope, they wanted to partake of mob hormonal release from a distance.
The entire length of the bar, yet. I always sit as far away from the stage as possible, just to get away from misbehavior.
Last night, it did not help.

Go on girls, flock up there. Go flock with the other vulgarians on stage.
Seriously, ya'll need to get flocked.

I watched the bar-manager facing the crowd. Underneath that calm, composed, and smiling exterior, I could tell that he wished he were back in Africa as a mercenary. None of these idiots would’ve survived.
Bogey at eleven o’clock! Kablam! Ratatat!

I can’t believe that Hugh Heffner surrounds himself with these creatures.
That tells you something.

I didn't stay very long.


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