Save Your "Sorry"s

After the Trapped in the Closet fun, the night was not over. Oh no, we moved on to a rousing game of Sorry. Despite being a board game enthusiast growing up, I always despised Sorry. I think I was too nice to enjoy the act of sending a piece that almost was safe back to home. However, after having just watched numerous thoughtless affairs put to music, I felt prepared. Remarkably, this was the only time I remember winning the game in my entire life. Admittedly, that is probably another significant reason why I did not like the game when I was younger.

Afterwards, we headed off to the dumpiest dump in town. It's dirty and cheap, what you'd call a dive bar, except that even diving wouldn't be allowed in this location because it's too shallow and it contains nothing but concrete. If that other place is the Comfortably Trashy Bar, this place is the Uncomfortably Trashy Bar. Better yet, it's named the Highbrow, which makes it possibly the most ironically named place in the world.

The typical patrons are unemployed thirty-somethings who wear metal t-shirts (that's to say of metal bands, not the actual material) and the occasional slutty individual who doesn't own the right outfits to whore emself around at a more Comfortably Trashy Bar. Additionally, there are people over fifty who are straight up country with cowboy hats, buckles, and line dancing. They play billiards and sit on the opposite side of the bar from the metal crowd. It's truly a sight to be seen, particularly when a crowd of young twenty-somethings waltz in, clearly belonging to neither resident group, and start freak dancing.

All in all, the multiple culture clashes make the evening quite amusing. Between dancing, I continually survey to make sure our drinks are not being drugged. At one point, I'm propositioned by someone older than my parents. Awkwardly, I dance, afraid to get too close. Once I realized we became a spectacle, I pretended to be having a lot of fun to confuse both the metalheads and cowpokes alike. After trying to excuse myself, my partner called over a friend saying, "It's your turn!" The friend, also older than my parents, had a tiny skirt and giant, sagging, unrestrained breasts. This was the same person who earlier had rambled incoherently into Stacy's ear as if they were best friends. Spotting the friend snapping and swiveling her hips as she approached, I acted as though I didn't notice her advances and danced with Madeleine instead. I'm not sure how convincing that was, considering she seemed quite content to make love to the golf-themed arcade machine against the wall.

Alas, all good things must come to an end, especially when you get kicked out. I'm not about to mention names, so let's call this person Annika Sorenson. Anyway, Annika managed to commit a faux pas and get a couple of people kicked out of the bar, though truthfully, I'm not sure we were all that welcome at the bar in the first place. As we left, I watched my former dance partner, the aged cowgirl, give an uncomfortably long hug to someone probably three times my age. What did that person have that I don't... besides a toothpick in eir mouth? At that point, I was happy to leave; the jealousy alone would have killed me. It was more heartbreaking than Sorrying someone.