The match strikes again
A fortuitous facet of a pretty city as populated as New York is the unlikely probability that you will ever again run into a match.com date gone lame. This, in addition to ample sized bagels and an ever-expanding frozen yogurt market is a prevalent residential rationale when opting metro over flyover state.
After a particularly fruitless phone exchange with an ex-file, e.g:
“Darlin’ I just fuck you over every chance I get I am such a dick.”
“Said fuckage over is useless when rocking the figurative as opposed to the preferential literal.”
…I decided I needed to get my drink on and that said drink needed to be brought on good and proper.
Side note: While men oft times drive me to drink this is in no way a gender specific occurrence. If I were to deviate to the rainbow-lovin’ lifestyle I’d put money on chicks driving me to the bottle just as quick, if not quicker than their plus-one appendage counterparts.
But back to the binge drinking.
My prep unit and I set the partay locale at a west side waterfront spot rumored to have tall, hot specimens. Potential protein supplements far surpass vitamins A, B and C in the quest for healthy living.
After Bartender 1 acquiesced my desire to get bombed with a percentage upgrade I was feeling pretty good. After consumption of a super salty bagel dog, I was feeling pretty great.
And then there came Bartender 2, Orlando Bloom, or “O” if we are going to get familiar about it. I took an immediate liking to him and not only because he had an accent and was what stood between me and my friend Captain Morgan.
O kept up with free beverages. I was digging it and had already appropriated the place my new go-to watering hole when he mentioned the other bar he works at, Timbo’s bar.
“Wait, you know Tim?”
“I was WAITING for you to recognize me. You think I treat all the girls like this?”
(See level of toxicity on date with Timbo). On said date good ol’ Timbo had at one point referenced a guy outside the bar on a bike.
“Look it’s Orlando Bloom. I hired that guy.”
“Uh huh” (copious quantities of alcohol render me monosyllabic).
I’m pretty legit for being recognized at random due to match.com. On the Negative Nancy side of the spectrum I fear Timbo has a photo of me in circulation with a “do not serve” caption in the west village bar scene. As long as he keeps Magnolia and Pinkberry out of it, I suppose I can deal.
