I probably shouldn’t remind you about this, but my Monday Dare last week was to count to ten before reacting. It was, in fact, the second time I attempted the Dare because I was a loser and failed the first time.By Friday, it looked like I was going to make it. Overwhelmed with pride for counting to ten all week, I started shooting myself the finger gun and giving myself winks every time I passed a mirror. I like to give myself encouragement. It makes me feel like a winner.
I was in Boston with Harv, but I was looking forward to a girls’ night out with some lovely friends from New York who happened to be in Boston at the same time. I practiced saying things like “So very lovely to meet you. I am well.” and “No, I am not currently on methampetamine. I normally look this way.” because I knew I would be meeting friends of friends.
All seven of us gals ended the night at a hotel lounge. We squeezed into a little table in an alcove and had the space to ourselves until four burly dudes in their late 40’s took the other half of the space. We weren’t in the mood to be friendly except to each other, but we didn’t mind sharing the space. We didn’t even mind the hooting and the hollering. Or the knee-slapping. Or the loud conversation.
Then, I smelled something. And that something was bad. Insanely bad. We looked at each other, and then we looked at the table beside us. One of the burly dudes didn’t have proper sphincter control, but we weren’t going to let that ruin our night. We ignored the high-fives and the cackling from their direction…an obvious sign of their maturity. The overwhelming stench stayed in the alcove for the next ten minutes. It’s quite possible my pores absorbed the odor, and I’ll be emitted Eau de Fart for days to come. Weeks, even.
A little while later, Loose Sphincter Dude gifted us again. It was so bad, he actually left the table and when I turned around, the other Dudes were giggling while covering their noses with their shirts.
I didn’t count to ten. Instead, I shot up and demanded the Dudes apologize and leave. They laughed. One of them told me to watch my mouth and sit down. Watch my mouth? I wouldn’t have to if they had bothered to watch their assholes.
I may or may not have said some things that involved the words “why don’t you make me” and “fuck off.” I may or may not have bent at a 90 degree angle and wagged my finger in his face. I don’t know. It’s a little fuzzy.
Our server, the lounge manager, and hotel security came by to “handle” the situation. They made the Dudes move.
I woke up Harv to tell him about the brawl when I got back to the hotel. He just sighed a little and rolled his eyes. I think that means he was proud of me. I can never be sure of his facial expressions.
I learned two things in Boston. One, counting to ten shouldn’t just be a Monday Dare for me. It should be an everyday-for-the-rest-of-my-life Dare. I need it. And two, bad farts happen to good people.
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Gotten yourself in a little brawl? Witnessed a brawl? Experienced bad behavior? Spill.
