As I mentioned in my last post, not only does the little Englishman need his regular intake of rum or something with a proof, he can also scrounge up money in our worst financial times to accomplish this. About a week ago, he put on a fabulous show of this and we ended up with a thoroughly memorable night at a local bar called the Yellow Dog.
I'd just finished work and was walking home when my specially attuned senses alerted me that the little Englishman might want to drink. I knew we had enough rum to get a bit of a buzz going and there was a special event taking place at the bar. How special was shortly to be revealed. Sure enough, when I walked in the door, the first question out of his mouth was "Fancy a drink?" Now when he says "a drink," it means a night long boozy session of multiple drinks. We made a plan to drink really quickly while playing Tiger Woods golf where you had to take a drink every time you didn't make it in the fairway or on the green and it was double drinks for any hazard and down your drink if you get anything over par. It took probably about an hour or two to finish off the rum and make our way to the ATM. We were planning to limit ourselves to only $10 at the bar but when he told me to take out a 20, I knew we weren't coming home with any of that left.
The first thirty minutes or so were uneventful. We just sat around on the patio and people-watched while racking up the mosquito bites. I have a cluster of them on my leg that were so close together, they swole into one monster bite. When everyone decided to go inside is when the crazy train dumped off its passengers. I'd noted outside how many 40-year-old women were there dressed in hooker clothes and looking like Barbie's more plasticy mom. One in particular was Crystal and I found out her name in a lovely, not at all slutty way.
Crystal was clearly trolling for male companions that night. The little Englishman and I had been sitting quietly while music boomed through the tiny shack of a bar. A particular song seemed to have gotten Crystal's attention because she chose that moment to start booty dancing with the lesbian owner of the establishment. Crystal's white dress went up and everyone saw her matching lace thong and ass tattoo. I asked her after the little show who's name that was on her ass and she replied with "Mine. I'm Crystal. I love me," in the most valley girl-esque tones imaginable for someone with mature vocal chords. Crystal was tattooed so large on her ass and surrounded with so many cheesy roses and swirls that I somehow doubted she loved herself and more likely had daddy issues.
From this point on, an audience of middle-aged men were staring at her carefully, hoping for more shows, which they got...on top of a table. More ass was shown and the lesbian owner decided this was the cue to show her own ass.
After all this, a woman introduced herself as Barb and started rubbing my shoulders before pointing to a younger woman and whispering in my ear "That's my daughter. She hates my guts."
We saw two pairs of tits before the evening was through and when those left the bar, so did most of the men. The little Englishman and I spent a few hours talking to a rather fascinating couple named Dave and Krista (I think). I saw Dave a couple days later and had no clue who he was until he mentioned that night.
Anyway, we're probably going back to the free strip club tomorrow so there may be more stories later.
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