>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
September 28, 2005
Charity: Aww, did the manwhore lose his harem?
Nathan: Fate won’t stop fucking with me, girl.
Charity: Looks like it’s the only one that won’t stop fucking you.
Nathan: Just drive the knife deeper, girl. Go ahead.
Charity: You know the rules, Nathan. Karma hates scumbags.
Nathan: That was nice, now twist it a little. I still have some life left.
Charity: You callous asshole.
Nathan: Great, now I’m dead. Thanks so much, girl.
Last November at approximately 8PM, two women (both named Sheila) met at one of those Corporate BS Bars with no personality and miniature egg rolls. These two Sheilas were old friends, though they had not spoken in several months due to busy schedules. As these two ladies caught up with each other, they came to discuss the men in their lives, and they discovered that their boyfriends had the same name.
Small world.
As they discussed their boyfriends in detail, they learned that they were both dating men who were blond, medium build, and who even worked for the same company. This was just too unlikely to be coincidental. Half joking but very suspicious, both Sheilas showed each other their boyfriend’s cell phone numbers and learned (surprise, surprise) that their boyfriends had the same phone number. Again, what a teeny lil’ world.
While all this was going on, yours truly was playing pool with a cute little bartender named Jennifer. When Jennifer went to the restroom, I decided to check my two new messages and heard the following from Sheila One: “You ever call me again and I will kill you. Next time you cheat on a girl, at least make sure it’s not with one of her best friends. Asshole.”
That message was followed by one from Sheila Two (no order of importance here): “Ha ha! Busted. You are such a fucking scum bag. I hope you get AIDS and die, you son of a bitch.”
Though I wasn’t entirely sure exactly what had occurred, I was pretty sure that the Sheilas were out of my life. That was fine; after all, there was still a Jen and two Jessicas. Of course, Karma being the complete SOB that it is, Jessica One picked that exact moment to walk into the Smoky Pool Hall, say hello to me, and then freak out like a bobcat whose tail had just been forcibly removed with rusty pliers when Jen came out of the bathroom, grabbed my ass and kissed me on the cheek.
Jessica: What are you doing grabbing my boyfriend’s ass, bitch?
Jen: Your boyfriend? We’ve been dating for two months.
Jessica: Oh, really? Well, fuck you, Nate. It’s over. Have fun with your hand, bitch!
Me: But I can explain.
Jen: Then do it.
Me: I, well, I guess, you see, I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings and…
Jen: Oh give it a rest. You’re just a fucking slut. I hope I never see you again.
So my wine-stained shirt and I were left to our devices, and my girlfriend options had dwindled down to one, but luckily for me, Jessica Two was a waitress at a local casual dining restaurant and could help console me with discounted food and free drinks. I put away my pool cue, borrowed a t-shirt from the bartender, and headed up to the Corporate BS Bar. It was my intention to focus all of my sensual and sexual energies on Jessica Two, as she was, for the time being, It.
I think you see where this is going.
As I walked into the Corporate BS Bar, I recognized the two Sheilas, both drunk, and chumming it up. They looked more than slightly upset when they spotted me.
I immediately turned around to head out of the bar, but it was too late. Both Sheilas and Jessica Two walked up at the same time, one woman to say hello and offer a kiss and two women to cuss me out.
Three minutes later, I was completely single; my new, Smoky Pool Hall shirt had been stained permanently pink; and I’d been slapped in the face (hard) and informed by Jessica Two’s boss that I had to leave, “for the safety of our customers.”
So that night, I called my father and told him what happened. I was hoping for some sincerity, a little fatherly advice, maybe even some empathy… but it was after six so he was smashed. He was however, polite enough to offer the following:
“That could only happy to you, you little bastard.”
In the end, I guess, we all get what we deserve.