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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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August /
September 2006 Contest Results |
Trick or
Treat, Mister Goodbar
By Cheryl O'Donovan,
Illinois
I’m off,
kissing the dog and tossing a treat to my husband. By eight-thirty, I
park outside the hot new club, Studio Code Blue, which caters to those
heavily in denial.
I enter, startled. The blinding fluorescent lights
ensure no tripping. In the corner is a triage unit. EXIT signs are in large
E-Z type.
Gray-haired men don’t gaze across the room with smoldering
alpha male intent. They squint helplessly, hoping whoever comes in range
has health insurance. The sizzling disco beat of “Do the Hustle,” has
been replaced with “Do the Walker.”
My eyes sweep the festive interior, looking for Linda, my gal pal for
twenty-five years. She is my confidant, the “Shirl” to my Laverne, the
pistol-packing Louise to my frosted-lipsticked Thelma. We went from
halter tops to elastic waists together. I’d lay down my ATM access code
for her.
Now, two divorces, five children and several free plastic surgery
consultations later, Linda is in the gooey stage of infatuation. Newly
single, she’s just met a guy on GeezerMates.com. She wants me to meet
him, which is why I am here.
It’s crowded and I’ve misplaced my reading
glasses. I sense a guy checking me out. Oh. It’s the doorman asking me
for the cover fee. His crooked toupee and nose ring don’t really mesh,
but what the hey. His wheezing adds to the ambience. I feel adventurous,
getting a whiff of my glory days as an ‘80s single girl, when I wore
gigantic shoulder pads and draped myself in silk magenta. Ah, for those
heady carefree days before heels could put me into traction!
Near the bar, Linda waves frantically. I saunter over. Next to her is
a stooped-over man in spectacles. “This is Thadley Disarming,” she says.
“Thad for short.”
The male bartender takes our order. No longer do I whisper the names of
cutesy beverages with umbrellas or ooze suggestiveness ordering risqué-sounding drinks like “Sex on the Beach.” My cocktail’s spiked
with the gritty tang of Metamucil. It’s “Convalesce on the Cot.”
Eventually, Linda excuses herself to the powder room, leaving me alone
with Thad. Almost instantly, I catch him measuring the longitude and
curve-itude of the female bartender’s backside tattoo, winking like he’s
got a peanut shell lodged in his eye.
“I dig young chicks,” he growls, popping Levitras like they’re breath
mints.
My jaw tightens with anger. Linda must know the truth.
Politely excusing myself, I casually lock a leg around Thad’s bar stool,
harness my superpowers and send him flying, where he shorts out the neon
Schlitz sign. Sparks crackle and flutter. A slumped-over drunk mutters
that the Fourth must be starting early.
Weaving my way around tables, I intercept Linda in the cramped rest
room.
“Linda.” I pat her hand gently. “I have something to tell you about
Thad.”
“Isn’t he dreamy?”
I close my eyes. Bursting her rose-colored bubble will be hard. But this
isn’t anything lasting. Real love is the grim history my husband and I
have. Real love is when your man knows the results of your colonoscopy.
I tell her what happened. Thad’s a cad, and should be a cadaver.
She drops her lip gloss. “No!”
“He even asked the St. Pauli’s Girl for her number.”
“He did not,” Linda says.
“I saw him talking to the poster.”
“Well, I’m not listening. He’s cultured. Literate. Finally, I meet a man
who knows who Thomas Wolfe is.”
“Linda. He said he read ‘Bon Jovi of the Vanities.’”
“Thad’s exciting!”
I exhale slowly. “So is an air show, but you don’t see us flying inside
the plane. ‘Cause there could be a crash.”
“He’s Mister Right!”
“He’s Mister Whipple.” I crack open the door and peek outside. Thad is
trying to pinch Miss AARP.
Again, the bathroom door creaks. Linda takes a look. I hear outraged
choking, a sob and strong expletives. Ahh. Relief. I won’t need to
arrange an intervention.
“Too bad Lorena Bobbitt is in semi-retirement.”
“Oh, let’s get out of here.” Linda stuffs make-up containers into her
purse. “I want chocolate and some trans fats. Interested?”
“Add some salt and artery clogging, and I’m in. What about Thad?”
“That little bartender out there. Remember the surprise scene in ‘The
Crying Game’? Well, Thad will be crying later.”
We slide out the back exit and head to Denny’s for their $5.99
Chocoholic Platter. A cup of decaf, a few laughs at Thad’s expense, and
I should be home before Nancy Grace.
http://www.estrogenunderground.com
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