Of all the euphemisms people use in reference to going out and getting drunk, “coming out to play” is the one I hate. It’s fucking ridiculous for a bunch of “grown-ups” to go around saying “We’re going out to play” when they’re simply really saying, “Hey, we’re going out to some bar/restaurant/someone’s house and getting shitty ‘till we can’t see straight.” The same people who talk about "playing" are also the same ones who refer to weekdays/workdays as a “school nights.” What the fuck is that?
Yes, I remember school and I remember being sent to bed early and I can’t help but wish someone had told me back then that school was all bullshit and that you’re not really there to learn stuff of much use, but rather to spend the last few years of your “free” life in peace and relaxation instead of stressing about memorizing dates, equations, formulas and dates/events based on some delusional “writer’s” view of history and of what is really important. The FOIL method? Yeah I’ve used that several times to get me out of real jammed up sessions. The Pythagorean Theory? That comes in really handy when measuring for carpet in my asymmetrical rooms. Bacon’s Rebellion? Perfect for comparison with everyday events in Polar Rock, GA.
But how do you tell someone not to ask you to “come out and play?” Some things are better left unsaid, lest you hurt your friends’ delicate feelings, yes, all three of them. So take heed all youse who read this completely realistic account of my Life: Don’t ask me to come out and "play" with you. Ever. Instead just use your grow-up voice and words and say what you mean, “Let’s go out and get drunk already.” Or whatever else it is that you do and stuff.
Someone called and asked me to “come play” last night- thank God for the Clairmont Lounge; instead of hurting their feeling (no s needed- this person only has one feeling) I said I was going to the Clairmont. However, going to the Clairmont Lounge turned against me since I had vivid nightmares of giant, droopy, hairless, talking vaginas when I made it back home. There was one lady in particular who does not take her clothes off but simply stands infront of the unsuspecting patrons and continues to flash her danger zones while making licking gestures with her tongue until the patron is forced to give her a dollar bill in order to salvage what’s left of their retinas and make her go away. Thing is though, that once that patron gives a dollar she keeps coming back- and their only hope is that her set of two songs isn't The Wall and some other equally long song. Last night she did pick The Wall and some other long-ass song. I guess you don’t go to the Clairmont for edification and warm-fuzzy feelings or attractive-looking vaginas after all.
We went to meet “Blondie” a local celebrity, but she wasn’t performing, she was pimping out calendars or something, or maybe it was a book of poetry now that she’s also a bonafide poet. I guess she added Poet to her resume, right next to best-beer-can-crusher this side of Dixie title. Going to the Clairmont Lounge is just one of those things you have to do while in or around Atlanta.
The mix of performing artist is quite varied there, the young ones need a gym and less rough sex to diminish the bite-marks and various bruises along their gluteouses. The old ones need- let’s see what does and old nudie performer need? I wonder if the Clairmont offers benefits or a retirement fund of some sort?
But how do you tell someone not to ask you to “come out and play?” Some things are better left unsaid, lest you hurt your friends’ delicate feelings, yes, all three of them. So take heed all youse who read this completely realistic account of my Life: Don’t ask me to come out and "play" with you. Ever. Instead just use your grow-up voice and words and say what you mean, “Let’s go out and get drunk already.” Or whatever else it is that you do and stuff.
Someone called and asked me to “come play” last night- thank God for the Clairmont Lounge; instead of hurting their feeling (no s needed- this person only has one feeling) I said I was going to the Clairmont. However, going to the Clairmont Lounge turned against me since I had vivid nightmares of giant, droopy, hairless, talking vaginas when I made it back home. There was one lady in particular who does not take her clothes off but simply stands infront of the unsuspecting patrons and continues to flash her danger zones while making licking gestures with her tongue until the patron is forced to give her a dollar bill in order to salvage what’s left of their retinas and make her go away. Thing is though, that once that patron gives a dollar she keeps coming back- and their only hope is that her set of two songs isn't The Wall and some other equally long song. Last night she did pick The Wall and some other long-ass song. I guess you don’t go to the Clairmont for edification and warm-fuzzy feelings or attractive-looking vaginas after all.
We went to meet “Blondie” a local celebrity, but she wasn’t performing, she was pimping out calendars or something, or maybe it was a book of poetry now that she’s also a bonafide poet. I guess she added Poet to her resume, right next to best-beer-can-crusher this side of Dixie title. Going to the Clairmont Lounge is just one of those things you have to do while in or around Atlanta.
The mix of performing artist is quite varied there, the young ones need a gym and less rough sex to diminish the bite-marks and various bruises along their gluteouses. The old ones need- let’s see what does and old nudie performer need? I wonder if the Clairmont offers benefits or a retirement fund of some sort?
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