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If God is Watching, Even He’s Cringing at This

October 1, 2009

It’s been a while since I’ve hung out at the Bisquotech, our soup-themed dance club in town.  Not that I’ve ever been much for clubs or dancing in general, but sometimes you just gotta go where the people are.  And sometimes you’re just in the mood for soup and Euro-dance (or you just need a reminder of why this is not your scene).

So I’m at the bar with my Captain and Coke and a bowl of lobster bisque and I’m scanning the dance floor for fine-looking women and their slightly less fine girlfriends with lower self-esteem who are sort of awkward in this setting but got roped into coming because they’re never going to find a guy just sitting around the house.  The trick is when flying solo or with a wingman is to find pairs of girls, not large groups of four or more.  Large groups of girls usually aren’t out there looking for guys.  They’re out there for themselves.  And even if they are on the hunt you’d need to bring a squad with you.  Never go in alone.

This brings me to some poor soul I see doing just that, trying to dance his way into a iron circle of eight girls.  His interest may be genuine but their indifference to him is so obvious it translates into other senses.  You can smell, taste, and feel the desperation and failure, and the more you watch it the more pungent, sour, and piercing it becomes.  Yet you can’t turn away from it, like it’s a one-car wreck on the highway.  You just stare at the twisted wreckage and wonder how the hell that came to be.

I don’t know who that poor soul prays to, but every higher power I can name looks to have forsakened him.  If he came with friends, they’ve abandoned him too.  They’re probably walking away towards the bathrooms, shaking their heads and saying “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”

The bartender just sighs as he pours a set of shots for some customers,  silently dedicating them to that poor soul out there who hasn’t taken the hint.  I’m trying to send him telepathic messages to abort the mission.  Punch out, Maverick.  It’s over, Johnny.  Game over, man.   It was over before you stepped on the dance floor.  Hell, it was over before you pulled that bland powder blue shirt out of your closet for tonight’s festivities.  You’re just the last one to know it.

Eventually he leaves the circle of disinterest and goes to get another beer at the bar.  I don’t know if he tried it again, because you can only watch a fiery catastrophe like that for so long before your emotions shift from pity to disgust.

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4 comments

  1. like an episode of “Wild Kingdom” – “Marlon waits safely upstream while Jim attempts to penetrate the iron circle…”.

    even sadder? i’ve felt sorry for guys like that and made the mistake of dancing with them… and been blown off for being the homely, deputy adjacent assistant back up chick….


  2. I have to admit I was always one of the chicks in that Iron Circle on the dance floor. We usually went in groups of four or more, and heaven help the poor soul who ever tried to break in…unless we invited him of course..

    Oh did those nights lead to some great chuckles..


  3. It’s good you understand the Pack Theory, because the ones that don’t get it? Those guys? I just feel bad being mean.

    No I don’t. Get out of my face, dork.


  4. Yep… he was definitely forsooked



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