Our Sunday shifts tend to be the torturous definition of endlessly boring agony until around six PM, so until that hour Jeff the bartender and I amuse ourselves as best as we can, vainly attempting to find something decent on the tube - no easy feat in the programming wasteland that is NYC - watching DVDs, listening to music or reading whatever is at hand. On this particular Sunday, Jeff was at the bar jotting down new song lyrics in his notebook and I was in the kitchen reading an excellent book on the Black Plague (I'm really into feel-good reading), when we both heard the electronic chime that alerts us to the front door opening.
I briefly craned my neck in the direction of the bar and noted a buxom blonde planting herself on a bar stool. Something about the woman struck me as familiar, but I ignored the mild rumblings of my “looney sense” and went back to my book.
After about fifteen minutes I noticed that the door chime kept going off every five minutes or so, and since we clearly were not being overrun by rabid barbecue-holics I looked out and realized that it was the blonde chick going in and out to constantly yack at people on her cell phone. At that point Jeff (pictured) came back into the kitchen, and if his eyes had rolled any further into his skull they would have rolled down his esophagus and fallen out of his asshole. I asked him what was bugging him and he said, “This fucking annoying psycho bitch is outside and she just WILL NOT FUCKING SHUT UP!” Once he had composed himself, Jeff elaborated:
“Okay, so she comes in with a hello as if she were Rolls (NOTE: one of our regulars who has become family) but pissed off at life. All familiar like, and she's like, 'I'm pissed…' I give her a menu she says, 'No thanks, I know what I want,' then I'm like, 'Oh, okay. What would you like?' She says she doesn't know and then asks for something with lots of raspberry vodka. I make her a raspberry vodka martini and then she's all, 'I went to this Russian bar — I'm Polish — but them Russians… Ya know they only drink shots of vodka, so me and my girlfriends were SOOOO hung over...' Then she's like, 'We were at a wedding, and this guy tried to charge my mother a ton of money and he's like a millionaire...'”
At that point I opened my mouth to say, "Exactly what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” when Jeff beat me to it and blurted, “Yeah, I had no fuckin' clue either as to what the fuck she was talking about, and what the connection between the two stories was! Then she said that her stepfather 'slapped her in the face,' I think at the wedding. In response to my offering her a fourth Chesterfield ale she boasted, "Yeah, I'm not even plastered yet!"
At that point the alarms in my head went off, and I screamed, “OH, SHIT! IT'S BIRTHDAY GIRL!!!” and I swiftly strode out of my smoky sanctum to verify my deduction. Sure enough, it was her, the horrific subject of a previous post, and the second she saw me she happily exclaimed, “Hiya! Remember me? I'm the birthday girl!” I nodded in acknowledgement and immediately returned to the kitchen, staying there for the next few hours while she irritated the living shit out of poor Jeff and Sal, another of our regulars.
When Birthday Girl comes into the barbecue joint, she's on the prowl for dick with a lack of subtlety that would make a she-mink in estrus blush. Pussy a-droolin', she worked her way about the bar, repelling the few men who sat there and attempted to watch the Mets game, even lamely propositioning Sal with a from out of nowhere,”I haven't had sex in a year,” followed up by the world's oldest sports related come-on, namely trying to get him to explain baseball to her since she was just a mere female. Sal instantly twigged to her “strategy” and shot her down in flames with a swiftly executed, “Nah, it'll take too long,” which he punctuated with a long pull on his Schaefer tall boy. The finality of the exchange was as obvious as a thirty-ton bank vault door slamming on someone's skull.
Soon, an aggravated Jeff returned to the sanctuary of the kitchen and immediately vented again: “She didn't like the sausage platter, had me pour sugar in her martini, and when she couldn't finish it said 'Next time! Tee hee!' Whatever, man! Then she asked, 'What are the guys in here, because my girlfriends are all single…' FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!!!!!!”
As if this tableu weren't enough to give any guy a headache and a permanent “man-gina,” Birthday Girl kept trying to gloss over her hyper-annoying drunken behavior by mentioning the fact that she's Polish about 400 times, spicing that huge “who gives a fuck" moment with the killer combo of "Hey I'm Polish AND blonde!!!” Then, after what seemed like an eon, the bar hag left, presumably to haunt some other unsuspecting watering hole and hopefully find some inebriated horn-dog to give her the ol' pork plug.
Ladies, let this serve as an object lesson in how not to go on a quest for Johnson. Take it from me, even as horny as I am at the moment, I wouldn't have gone for what she was offering.