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Posts Tagged ‘pricks’

Tonight was an interesting night. I swung by Brooklyn’s office around 4 to drop off his iPod and winter hat which had been left in the rental car before heading home. We had some tea, chatted awhile, flirted a bit.  It was fun. We talked about my birthday on Friday night and what the plans were and I ran into a raging little queen I know whom I haven’t seen in ages. Since he knows me as a raging dyke, he was probably a little confused to find me with my legs entangled with those of a man and looking romantic. I’ll explain it to him later. I walked Brooklyn back to his office and jumped the train home.

When I was approximately 20 minutes from home, I decided I really wanted Pho for dinner.  I am fighting off a nasty head cold and Pho is usually just the thing. I texted a few friends asking who might be up for it and my old punker/surfer turned successful IT professional friend said a wholehearted yes. We met at the train station and he decides that we should go somewhere else. Suddenly my quick hour meal of steamy pho turns into 4 hours, nearly 5 hard ciders and some french fries and middle eastern food. Did I mention that it turned out the bar had a bad punk dj set up? Punk/surfer and I relived our old punk/industrial childhoods from 20 years before and laughed at the kids surrounding us. Many of these kids were in diapers, if even born, when we were out at clubs seeing these bands. I threw my shoulder out in the mosh pit of a concert before these kids were walking.

At some point I got up to use the bathroom, waited in line and some prick decides to kick his way through and cut in front of 6 of us. I called him on his shit and stuck my foot in the door so it wouldn’t shut. Fine, you wanna piss? Piss in front of everyone you fat fucking 20-year-old dirt “punk” in stretch skinny jeans, Reebok sneakers and leather studded jacket that you can’t zip around your enormous gut. Go ahead. So, he does and then he attempts to strut by, as well as any fat man in stretch skinny jeans can strut. I pee, sit back with my friend and tell him the story, pointing out the idiot prick at the bar.

Punk/Surfer Friend and I continue to finish our drinks and half reminisce and half make fun of the kids when suddenly the fattie “punk” is on the microphone next to the dj and beginning some diatribe he thinks is comedic. One of the things he says is something about the suburban girl who was like, umm, excuse me..about the bathroom. Hmm, you talking about ME fattie? UM? suburban? And he said it in this mousey voice. I’m like,”No, uh uh. No YOU didn’t”. Mostly, I was pissed because I was really aggressive about the cut at the bathroom and responded in a way to honor my industrial/goth punk and Brooklyn backgrounds by swearing at him and kicking the door open.

So, anyway, he finishes his little rant and next thing you know we happen to be leaving and he’s outside by the door. So, I’m irritated by his bullshit and so I slap him on the arm in front of all his friends and say,” so, did your little diatribe make your dick feel big?” as I walked by. He tried to talk smack to my friend and I but we are not having it at all. We looked at them, “dude, you don’t even know who John Peel is, let alone The Damned.” Let alone Throbbing Gristle!

As we walked back to the car, we laughed at their store-bought recycled era punk nonsense. 20 years ago we were doing the same shit they are, difference is, we were actually at some of the shows that they can now only listen to on their parent’s vinyl. Just because we opt to look attractive and conventional-esque now, rather than wear our freak on our sleeve like we did 20 years ago, just because we blend… don’t think you know us. I don’t feel the need to get their approval of my “street cred”, I am just more annoyed at the way the fattie tried to pass me off as some mousey suburban girl with long blonde hair saying, “umm, hi, umm, sir, excuse me. ” I have a strong inner freak flag and I can wave that bitch. I’ve been a Dom, I’ve hung with hardcore, industrial, and punk legends AND I have cleaned up well enough to have spent time with political dignitaries from other countries. I may look Anthropologie meets Brooklyn to your Hot Topic meets your Uncle Pete’s closet but I have dirty secrets and piercing scars that you can’t see. Don’t judge books. Sometimes the ordinary ones, have the richest ingredients and the strongest verbal left hooks.

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