Pull up to Little Bar after ignoring my daughter’s third phone call this evening. This is my night. No one will ruin this night for me. Miffed at her anyway for going by Mischa rather than Michelle and for moving to New York City where she blogs openly about her personal life. Well, MICHELLE, we’ll see who likes reading articles about their family member’s sex lives now, won’t we?
Fuck. Ing. Great. Walk into Little Bar to immediately find Dan Keller dicking with the jukebox. Inform him that Little Bar is the only bar in town that has Patsy Cline on the juke and goddammit, I want to hear “Crazy.” Dan smiles like the smug prick he is and puts on “(You Drive Me) Crazy” by Britney Spears. He shrugs like the shruggy prick he is and says, “Bro, I’m not even being ironic.”
I sock Dan in the face and wonder if he’ll have already drafted a title for an article on the sad state of modern masculinity by the time I order my beer. The answer is yes, that wormy prick. Can’t wait to read about it on the High School Reunion Boards. Note to self: troll said boards when you get home.
Drive over to High Noon because the bartender there is the only other citizen in this county who listens to This American Life. Schwing. Also, pro-tip: On Rodeo Night, the youth are too afraid of the bikers to show up, which means more PBR. Think about tweeting at Michelle to remind her of the time she showed me around in New York, boasting the three-dollar PBR specials in her Puerto Rican neighborhood. It’s 75 cents here, you dumb hipsters! Beat that!
Worry about said tweet becoming fodder for a successful fake Twitter account that will rocket my daughter’s internet popularity into the upper echelon, thus further removing myself from who I once knew to be my daughter and simultaneously ruining my ‘rep.’
Run into Meredith Monroe (pretty sure she changed her name, poseurrrrrrr) and politely nod-smile while she tells me about her book deal. Take a piss in the trough and LOL because who gives a shit about a book on recipes from the Prairies? A bunch of Midwest art-fags, I guess. Remember to anonymously harass her when you get home.
Hit on a woman with an Unknown Pleasures shirt on but of course she doesn’t know what Unknown Pleasures is and is completely offended when I offer to show her some. See you at the PTA, Karen, you no-taste-having-vinyl-siding-loving-Andy-Warhol-pimping philistine!
This American Life Bartender isn’t here and they’re playing It’s A Wonderful Life on the TV for some reason. I order a George Bailey and immediately feel depressed. Scan the room and realize there is absolutely no more talent here and this night is a bust.
Drive home a bit drunk but can totally handle it. Check Michelle’s blog and wince while scanning her GPOYs.
Put on Doolittle, pour a double of Makers, and make an OKCupid profile.