5/2/10 04:04 - why can’t i fight girls?
i love women. but some of you need your faces smashed in, or at the very least, savagely beaten by that ugly fucking handbag you’re carrying around.
i went to a hockey game tonight (ottawa vs vancouver). first intermission, me and a friend went to get a beer. as we’re walking back to our seats, this girl comes careening around a corner from the washroom, talking on her phone, not paying attention to her surroundings, and crashes right into me, knocking the beer cup out of my hand — right as i was about to take a sip. the cup flips over against my face, spilling down my shirt and one side of my leg.
there’s a moment of devastating silence as we both soak in the situation, and instead of apologizing and not making a scene like a normal human being with a functional brain, she throws her hands out to her sides like a fluttering chicken, waves them around like someone lit her on fire and screams, ‘ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!’
i stand there shocked. she continues.
‘JESUS CHRIST. WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING.’
like any proper trainwreck, the disaster area becomes a sudden attraction. a crowd slowly builds around us. i blink. ‘you’re the one bumped into me,’ i say with the it-was-your-fault-are-you-a-fucking-idio
of course, it’s a hockey game so testosterone is flying around everywhere like a bad fart in an elevator. predictably, some portly white knight with a chin strap who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking, which is typical of chin-strap wearing fucktards, steps into the batter’s box and tries to be a hero.
‘is there a problem here?’
i’m say, ‘no. she ran around the corner, bumped into me, and started screaming.’
the guy, proving my first impression of him as a braindead stupid fuck correct, ignores what i say, and replies with, ‘you better leave her alone!’ and puffs out his chest like a big man.
the girl, with her sword-swinging superhero-with-a-gut at her side, turns on the taps full blast and here come the waterworks. tears, like the great red sea, parts on either side of her face and streams down her cheeks, destroying the carefully painted mascara and sculpted foundation she was evidently re-applying in the washroom before this earth-shattering incident occurs. she ends up looking like that chick from the ring that comes out of the tv and eats people’s souls, all the while sputtering out confused gibberish about how i ruined her outfit and her night, while i’m standing there looking at a very small splash of beer near her shoulder. to make matters worse, her top is some sort of cheap, thrift-store t-shirt that was probably way fucking cheaper than the sixteen dollars i paid for my beer (and if you’ve ever been to a sporting event, you know drinking is not cheap at arenas).
i am mostly dumbfounded because while the girl is generally smartly dressed in low-maintenance clothing which would, on any other day, give me the impression she wouldn’t flip the fuck out if a drop of beer gets on her shirt and instead be the kind of girl who laughs it off and quips wittily about how she needs to get out of these wet clothes and then we’d proceed to have sex, get married, and produce the grandchildren my mother has been pressuring me to produce for her since the day i got my first kiss. unfortunately, the gods are nasty and spiteful beings with nothing better to do except turn normally boring situations into ROFLDIDYOUSEETHAT episodes that they can favourite on their youtube accounts for later viewing. thus all i can do is stand there and tolerate her tirade because i’m not allowed to chokeslam this bitch into the ground, trying my very best to stay calm and wait for my turn to speak, but that doesn’t happen because chickens on fire do not stop fluttering/yelling/crying/dancing like they’re in some 80s music video ever.
security eventually breaks everyone up before things escalate further. i return to the game, completely pissed off and feeling guilty (unwarranted girl tears are so evil) and can’t enjoy the 3–1 destruction of the vancouver canucks by the good guys.
Mirrored from fully automatic.