2013/02/20

Chapter 35: The Bi-Polar Admiral

CHRISTMAS VACATION: CONFESSIONS OF A CONFUSED DOUCHE


SECTION FOUR: ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA





XXXV: The Bi-Polar Admiral…An Unsolicited Revelation; An Unsolicited Rejection



Upon leaving the comedic torture chamber, I was ready to return downtown in order to sit awkwardly in a corner and dream about how great life would be if I had any “macking” skills whatsoever. The bartender had scored with one of the dudes she was “macking” on and I felt my sentence as a wing-man had been served. However, some other people wanted to hang out in West Asheville, and I am not one to demand a ride home—or demand any request for that matter. My life would be wonderful if I could have found the appropriate words to politely make that request. Unfortunately, the thesaurus does not list any alternatives for, “Nah bitch, give me a mother fucking ride back downtown.”

They suggested The Admiral and I was actually fine with that. The Admiral used to be cool back in the day and was another place I wished to visit. However, I did have a few incidents at The Admiral. One time I went there with Jen and she got extremely pissed off at me because there just happened to a woman there who over 6 feet tall and I have a thing for tall women. I did not even look at her though because I was with Jen. Jen accused me of all sorts of shit involving this girl who I never even spoke to and eventually punched me square in the face in my car. That was our first break-up. And like so many other pussy ass mother fuckers do after they've been abused, I went running back to her because I loved her. On the cool scale, my rating went from 0 to -46.

The key word in the “used to be cool” statement is used. On this night, it was extremely douchy and reminded me almost of a downtown Milwaukee bar. Furthermore, the DJ was the aforementioned guy I saw at Broadway’s who I assumed knew more about music than me—at least on 60’s garage rock. He was playing some extremely lame material and even stooped so low as to play I've Got Friends in Low Places. That changed my whole perspective as I lost some respect for this dude. You wouldn't ever see me playing that song. No, it will not be on the soundtrack either and is considered even worse than Heaven is a Place on Earth.

People there were dancing like white people and it was excruciating to endure. The worst dance ever invented is “The White Guy,” which consists of some fat oversized slob jumping up and down with his fist in the air trying to move closer to females who had been conditioned to remain half his size. The 2nd worst dance is “The White Guy 2” which consists of some attention starved drunken slut rubbing her booty into some douchy guy’s crotch while he just stands there with a stupid look on his face periodically moving his feet in rhythm to nothing because his head is completely void of any thought processes during the entire White Guy 2 tango. 89% of all people who happen to witness The White Guy 2 taking place ask themselves, “Why? What the fuck could anybody ever see in that douche?” 98% have uncovered the notion that she is only dancing with him because he paid for her drinks. But the douche and the ho are completely intolerable the next morning.



I had never seen this type of scene in Asheville before and hoped it was just a one night ordeal. Some other girl outside used the ultimate pick up line on some guy who was rated at a 94 on The Grand Douche Scale: “I have really firm boobs. Feel them.” Lame, but let’s face it, it works every time. It just seemed odd because she was significantly better looking than him. Anybody would have felt her boobs when presented that line. Whatever the fuck he did to invoke that request was a complete mystery, but the representatives from Lens Crafters were standing close by developing a new marketing scheme.

Once again, I was ready to dip out of there. However, I ordered another tin can of Pabst Blue Ribbon with hopes that maybe I could get drunk enough to do The White Guy. On the way back, some girl seated at a table eye raped me, pulled me over to her, and began talking to me. She wasn’t even midway through her first sentence when the guy she was with rejoined her at the table. I just walked away.

This place and I have a history with that type of behavior. I had developed a huge fondness for this girl who always came into my work at the stupid ass Shell. She happened to be at The Admiral one night that I was there with a friend. After I told him I had a thing for her, and confessed that I was too big of piece of shit to approach her, he went on a tirade, called me a slew of profound insults (such as pussy), and demanded that I approach her and dance with her.

Fuck that, that’s not my style. My style consists of doing absolutely nothing until somebody approaches me when I am too stoned to defend myself. I’ve been in 5 lengthy relationships, albeit abusive ones, using this technique. Because I am capable of home remedying inflicted bruises, violent abusive behavior is not necessarily a deal breaker for me. At my size, and given my wildly eccentric unpredictable behavior, a woman becoming violently hostile towards me is a recurring theme that I simply consider inevitable. It hasn’t been strictly relationships either. Anytime I am around a woman for a prolonged period of time, eventually she will hit me. That’s life, and I’ve accepted it.

I have a way with women!


To him though, that was unacceptable. Even after I tried to change the subject, her persistently demanded that I approach her and finally shoved me on the dance floor.

It should also be known, I can’t dance worth a shit. A dance floor represents the opposite extreme of my comfort zone. See the Abba video for evidence.

She was all the way on the other side of the dance floor, which was relatively far away. As I was slowly approaching her, in the similar fashion a person approaches an entryway infested with a hornet’s nest, some other woman cut in front of me. I had no clue who the fuck she was, and she forcefully grabbed me and started grinding on me. Not only was I trying to escape from her monkey ass, I needed to remain hidden because I didn’t want anybody to see me with her; especially the girl I had been forced to approach. Had she witnessed us in this position, she would have thought that we were together and my whole life would have been ruined.

However, she never let go. After the song, she dragged me to the bar, bought me a drink (Pabst in a can, bitch spent a whole $2) and dragged me outside. My friend gave me a look like—her? What the fuck do you see in her? I had to explain later that it wasn’t her; I had to explain to myself how the most despondent of people think they can have their way with for a lousy $2 can of Pabst. Do I look that cheap and desperate? My whole image needs severely altered. Perhaps I could give myself plastic surgery—that shall be a new New Year’s Resolution.

While we were outside, she said that she felt a connection with me—something she had never felt. This was something deep, something real, and something that could have only come from some bizarre sector of the Universe. Furthermore, she said she had wanted a new revelation in her life, and I was that revelation—that all of her ambitions had now been fully realized. (These were her words, verbatim, and not dumb ass shit that I typically create.)(If I was smart, I should have felt the revelation too.)

I had no idea how to respond to this. What I wanted to say was, “bitch, I just met you like two minutes ago. You thought all this shit just from dancing with me to half of a song? You thought all that shit and you buy me a fucking Pabst in a can?” Somehow, I felt that I needed to remain focused on the primary goal, and unfortunately, the girl I really wanted walked by and saw me sitting out there with her monkey ass talking about some fucked up revelation that could only come from Pabst in a can. Thanks, you ruined everything. I had been thinking all week that I needed a disaster in my life, and you, honey pie, are that disaster. It wasn’t even a tall boy, it was 12 oz. can.

Instead of saying how I really felt, in typical Tony J. Neal fashion, I responded exactly how I always do: I said, “OK,” and then mumbled a series of inaudible phrases that meant nothing. “Juminada skewdenelaemer,” I told her.

Hey, I just now realized that’s what I do whenever I go full retard. That’s something I will work on.

Whatever I said, which couldn’t have been anything, must have deepened her feelings. She kissed me. Gross. Then, she pulled me back on the dance floor, grinded all up on me, and started making out with me right in front of the girl I was hoping to impress.

Some other dude approached her and said something to her, and then a heated confrontation ensued. She angrily told him to go fuck himself and flipped him off while he was walking away.

“What did he just say to you?” I asked.

“Fuck him,” she retorted angrily, “That’s my husband. It’s OK, I have you now.”

What the fuck! This is not the way we do things around here. Even though I wanted no part of this, she kept kissing me. And once again, I responded in typical Tony J. Neal fashion—I just pretended nothing was going on and went to my happy place.

After the song, she dragged me over to by where he was standing, and then told this poor guy that she wanted a divorce because she had found somebody new—he turned his back on her. She insisted on telling him her news, and told him that her whole life had now been…

I have no idea how that sentence was going to end, because the dude, without even turning to face her, waved his fist backwards, and punched her right in the face. She retaliated and a massive shouting match followed.

Once again, I responded in typical Tony J. Neal fashion—I went to the bathroom and hoped that it would all disappear by the time I returned.

It kind of did. I looked around for my friend but he was nowhere in sight. A friend of his said she saw him and he was shitfaced drunk and left with some girl. I told her the situation and she offered to escort me to my car.

Out the corner of my eye, I saw them bickering in the far corner of the bar. My voice of reason finally took over, and with a don’t hesitate or ask any questions type of urgency, just shouted, “Run!”

And I raced out of that place as if a time bomb was set to detonate at any moment.

Back to the present, I told the people in the group (me, that girl from the bar, the dude she had been macking on, and some other girl—who was the coordinator of the event) of the situation and two of them found it amusing. The other girl, the coordinator, was not happy with anything and acting bitter. 

Somehow in this process, the bartender whose name I’ll never recall put her arms around everybody until we were all in a tight circle. Her dude looked over at her and kissed her. I was halfway looking away and halfway wanting to see her friend’s response, and she gave me the look of death as if I was going to try and kiss her. To go along with the menacing glare, she jerked away from me as if I about to diffuse a can of flea spray into her face.

I was a little drunk and part of me wanted to try and kiss her for real just to see how ruthless she could possibly be with her rejection—I could learn some valuable lessons on appropriate rejection techniques as opposed to pretending nothing is happening and retreating to my happy place. But, I didn’t know her, and, she had been kind enough to supply me a couple cigarettes since I had run out.

On a side note: I have been accused of flirting with people who I felt I was not flirting with; or leading people to believe that I am trying to kiss them when I have no intentions on ever doing so. Perhaps this is a reason why women occasionally try to kiss me and frequently submit unprovoked insulting rejections. She couldn’t have been too mad about it because she offered me a cigarette and requested I smoke with her 10 minutes later; but she complained the entire time.

Finally, and it was well after two as the bar was closing, we returned downtown. I was taken to Shell because I needed cigarettes. The dude she was macking on had to drive and he was nice enough to offer me a lift all the back to Kelly’s. However, the girl whose car it was said it wasn’t that far of a walk, they weren’t going that way—“bye.” What the hell, that’s what I get in return for being such a great wing man? I offered no resistance though because I wished to walk—a person can see some crazy shit after hours in downtown Asheville.

Nothing too crazy happened. In fact, it was a bit more quiet than usual, just a few people out and about. Winter time is not quite as exciting as the rest of the seasons, and the only highlight were these two older dudes walking around shouting…

“What do we love?”

And the other would yell, “Smoking weed!”

This was on repeat until they were out of my hearing range.

I was a little concerned that Mary would be displeased with me for not making it back to her gig. It wasn't entirely my fault though. Immediately when I saw her, I apologized. But, she didn't even notice—the show went well and they drew a decent crowd. As if my presence was important- I was but a douchy tourist. Who the hell was I kidding? Most people probably hope that I do not show up to their events; and then are on the radio with security in order to quarantine the situation. Sometimes it is nice never being expected to attend anything; there are numerous advantageous benefits to not being invited.

There was some intense drama though that night. Kelly’s dog was injured in freak accident that occurred the moment we walked into the door (her cab happened to arrive at the exact same time I was walking in front of the house.) She freaked out and borderline panicked—there was discussion of taking the dog to the vet. It was an uncomfortable situation. Finally, the dog proved well enough and lay in his bed—even though the poor little guy was still hobbling around. And I would be hobbling around even worse should I forget to put the toilet seat down again.

We stayed up until 6:00 in the morning talking about all sorts of things. Kelly was complaining about the sketchy freaks in the neighborhood that drive up and down their street looking for prostitutes; apparently a few people have thought she was one. She was aggressive and claimed she was going to beat people’s asses. Mary was calm and sophisticated and said all the perfectly appropriate things a person should do in this situation. As for me, there were numerous occasions where people had mistaken me for a prostitute when I lived here. I implied that I would keep the driver’s description embedded in the back of my mind should I ever need money for a pack of cigarettes. In my opinion, this is the best way to deal with things.


Index: Chapter List

Chapter 35 Soundtrack Listing:


1. Big Audio Dynamite
"The Globe" 3:12

The Globe
1991

2. M.I.A.
"Paper Planes" 3:25

Kala
2007

3. Fire Engines
"Lubricate Your Living Room Part 1" 4:34

Lubricate Your Living Room
1980

4. Ten Years After
"Good Morning Little Schoolgirl" 7:01

Ssssh.
1969

5. Blue Cheer
"Fruit & Iceburgs" 6:06

New! Improved!
1969

6. The Stooges
"Little Doll" 3:21

The Stooges
1969

7. Gaslight Radio
"Take Another Look" 1:57

Z Nation
2003

8. Destroyer
"Here Comes the Night" 6:36

This Night
2002

9. The Besnard Lakes
"Devastation" 5:50

The Besnard Lakes Are The Dark Horse
2007

10. Liars
"This Dust Makes That Mud" 10:37

They Threw Us All In A Trench And Stuck A Monument On Top
2002

All Sections Written, Designed, and Music Compiled by Tony J. Neal

White Guy Dancing Image by:
©2013

1 comment:

  1. I got my first electronic cigarette kit from VaporFi, and I enjoy it a lot.

    ReplyDelete

Popular Posts