As shocking as it may seem, I have never been in a bar fight-- except for once and it was with a drunk guy named Wendell, who elbowed me and falsely referred to me as being "broad". In retaliation, I totes kicked his ass and, according to mutual friends, he believes it was a dream so he never pressed charges.....hence, it doesn't count. Yet I have been involved in two separate near-violent confrontations that were a result of games of pool gone terribly awry. The first involving some Lowe's loving shims and the next involving a night in Marin County California, of which I will detail here. The irony being that those were the only two instances I've ever actually played pool in a bar.
The three of us arrived at the San Rafael Pub expecting to enjoy a quiet evening of binge drinking. It was early and we were the only females to grace the establishment. We found our way to the back room of the bar where we discovered a pool table. We began to play, half-hearted and off the books. Soon the bar began to fill and some male patrons challenged us to a game. We accepted their offer and, surprisingly, won.
Our win inspired us to continue to play. We had to work off our tequila shots and beers somehow. Trippette and I worried, though, that perhaps we might lose the table as we spied the tiny bar bustling with whitecaps and trixies. We recounted an old maneuver that we invented during our stint as "Pool Table Girls" at an embarrassing neo-country bar where, in our teens, we were employed. (Don't hate, we made a fuck load of cash. Yes, we were required to wear slutty cowgirl costumes.) We would fill the chalkboard with phony names to scare off potential players and/or to use said names as our own and continue to play all night. Years later we would use the same scam at lesbian karaoke. Note: When this task was performed while we were on duty at the neo-country bar we would sell the phony names to customers as a means to line jump for the pool table. Eventually we were caught by our bosses and quickly fired, but we had a good run.
First, we scribbled all three of our real names. Next came the phony names. At the time, three or four or five drinks in, the names sounded foolproof. In retrospect we should have known that nobody would fall for "D. Vader" or "Coot Dog" and, of course, "Coot Dog and Friends"--who was apparently a different person when his/her friends were in tow--as people in the room waiting in line for the lone table. For a hot minute the plan was working and the three of us, Trippette, Little Sister and I, were running the table.
As drunkards often do, we began to get sloppy. We quit using the cues and were hitting the balls directly with the sticks. Eventually we stopped using the sticks and were stuffing the balls into the pockets with our bare hands, giggling all the while. Surely someone would notice that we were making a mockery of the game. Unfortunately that someone was a dead ringer for Paul Bunyan, who happened to have his Blue Ox along side of him.
The two overgrown specimens walked in tandem towards the chalkboard. Out of amazement at their seven feet and six feet tall respective heights, we parted and allowed them to pass through, yet the act went unnoticed. Without speaking a word, Paul erased "D. Vader" with one of his enormous, callused paws. The Blue Ox, donning an appropriate blue peacoat, took care of "Coot Dog" and "Coot Dog and Friends" and didn't skip a beat slapping her four quarters onto the table. Their collective mass haunted the entire room.
It was then that a liquor filled Little Sister morphed into a tiny pit bull terrier, with emphasis on the terrier. "Hey bitch! You just erased my name!" Little Sister barked at the blue giant hovering nearly a foot above her.
"Who the fuck are you?" The Blue Ox snapped.
"I'm fucking Coot Dog and these are my friends." She lied, knowing that we plagiarized the name from the marquis on the bar next door.
The Blue Ox grinned and when she turned her massive frame to snub Little Sister, she ended up knocking the 85 pound girl to the floor. My big sister instincts pulsed through my veins, along with a little bit of blood and a lot of liquor. I grabbed a pool cue, the biggest one I could find, off of the rack and charged towards the blue giant, who was making her way back to her beloved Paul.
"Hey cunt!" I screamed as I prodded her back fat with the stick, "You just knocked over my sister!" I tried to mask my trembling hands. I could feel Trippette's hands on my shirt, pulling me in the opposite direction.
The Blue Ox turned in my direction, "What the fuck are you going to do about it?"
"I'm going to beat you the fuck down! That's what I'm going to do, fat ass!" I sassed, pointing the pool cue in her potato face, secretly hoping that someone would stop the bloodbath before it started. I casually allowed Trippette to continue to tug me in the opposite direction, while continuing to hiss curses at The Blue Ox. Soon the three of us had escaped danger and were safely on the sidewalk in front of the bar.
To save face, I devised a plan. Although merely the three of us were on the street, I whispered intently, "Let's wait here."
Trippette seemed confused, "Why?"
Knowing they wouldn't dare go along with my plan I looked around and quietly said, "Let's, jump them!" The "jump" part was mimed with American sign language.
Trippette and Little Sister rolled their eyes. "Can't we just go home and have a dance party instead?"
"I guess." I sighed and we walked off into the night.
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Potato face is def my new favorite insult.
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