Yawn. Another night out. I am getting too old for this shit.
So, last night I popped into the Guinness legacy event that was taking place in the pub located down the road. The place was packed, way too packed. I ended up standing in line for my pint and then I had to wedge myself into a corner. Alan, never one to turn down something free, helped himself at the buffet, which was mostly sliced fruit and cheese. In the front of the pub they had some little display set up in front of the stage and every now and then some dude would hop up and blab some stuff into the microphone. I had no idea what he was saying, so I carefully made my way to the front of the pub. By time I got up there, he was finished. So I plowed on back again. After two pints I decided it was way too crowded for my taste, and headed on out.
I really cannot complain, after all it was free beer.
After that I went home and soaked in the tub for a while, and then headed down to I-bar. It really was not very busy there. Most of the wilder costumes I like to see were not on display. No goggle girls, no thigh-high buckle boots. There was still the Boobarella girl, (You can see my BoooOooObs!) and the girl who appeared to be wearing just a pair of lace panties, so I really cannot complain. At one point I looked over and saw three bald men dancing on the floor, which led me to compose this spur of the moment poem:
Three bald men,
twirling,
twirling,
twirling about!
Like billiard balls clacking,
Like moons in the sky,
the light reflects from their heads
and into my eyes.
Shallan supplied this haiku:
goth girl is dancing
her panties are of black lace
her ass eats them up
I am going to take a moment to give my totally unsolicited opinion on tans. I am not a tan fan. I think there is nothing more beautiful on a woman than smooth white alabaster skin. Creamy as milk, like a roman statue. That being said, there was a girl there last night with a flat pure-white tummy. After gawking at that with a few rum and cokes in me, I wanted to slurp on that shit like Jeff Goldblum in 'the fly'.
Hmm, Perhaps I did not need to share that thought.
Once midnight rolled around we headed out. I managed to stay away form the hot-dog cart even though it's enchanted smells wafted up to me and plucked at my nose like a naughty sausage lover. There is a reason they put these hotdog stands right outside of bars... so when drunks like me wander outside and end up getting the munchies.
I think at lunch today I am going to have to sneak out and have a little snooze under a tree.
2026 Update
Dialing the machine to June 2006: Ed is dodging crowds, ogling pale tummies, and quoting Jeff Goldblum in a pub.
Reading this from the far side of 2026, I almost miss when a night out could be documented in one amateur paragraph instead of nine hundred overlapping stories of the same pint. Your pub crawl is a fossil: free beer as a marketing stunt, no phone flashlight raised, no QR code on the table, no one filming the 'little display' and demanding it go viral. The hot-dog cart still exists, I assume, but now its enchanted smells arrive via delivery app with a twelve-dollar fee and a side of guilt. Even the erotics of skin have been renegotiated; alabaster is no longer the default pedestal material, though men still find ways to be embarrassing about smooth stomachs. And the crowd itself—packed, hostile to elbows, full of bald men twirling—has since become something we schedule, rate, and pre-order from. You got two free pints and a poem. Now we get a reservation confirmation, an influencer with a ring light, and a venue's 'vibe manager' asking us to tag them. I am not sure we won the trade, but at least nobody is reading your haiku aloud.
“2006 Ed, was the free beer worth immortalizing 'slurp on that shit like Jeff Goldblum in the fly' on your public blog? Did no one in your vicinity ask you to sit down and reconsider?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, when the beer is free, the price is right, and my filter goes out the window along with my dignity. Was it worth immortalizing? Hell, I've written worse things on bathroom walls after two rum and cokes, so yeah, I'd say the Guinness earned its place in history. As for anyone asking me to sit down and reconsider, you'd think they would, but that crowd at I-bar is used to me. Shallan just laughed and wrote a haiku about a goth girl's panties eating her ass, so the bar for literary genius was already on the floor. I'm not saying it's fine art, but it's honest, and honesty after free beer is a beautiful thing. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a tree with my name on it for lunch.
