When I tell you that the selection of guys in Miami is terrible, I’m not kidding you. The quality of guys here leaves plenty to be desired. To give you an idea, let me just tell you about five guys I met in one day when I went to two bar crawls.
The first bar crawl I went to was a young lawyers bar crawl. The theme was “Red, Yellow, Green.” You wear red if you’re taken, yellow if you’re indecisive or some shit, and green if you’re single and want drunk creeps to hit on you incessantly. There was no choice to wear a color that says “I’m single but please don’t speak to me as I don’t want your alcohol breath on my face, your creepy hands on my shoulders, or your skeezy words crawling all over my body as you attempt to gracefully whisper them in my ear, but really just end up screaming and spitting all over the side of my face.” So I went with green.
Here’s three of the best character’s I met at Bar Crawl #1:
The Old Creepster
Apparently even when the memo clearly states “YOUNG lawyers” in the title, the point is missed by some. Perhaps the point was missed by this guy on purpose because he accepted he’s a creeper and had no shame in making young women’s skin crawl. Or perhaps the point was missed accidentally because he somehow thought that being in your mid-forties (or older) was “young.” Either way, it happened.
Because I met him once before I said hello to him at the start of the bar crawl, before he was so many drinks in that he lost count. By the fourth stop, he approached me THREE more times! The first time was to tell me that he’s had a crush on me since the day he met me. The second time was to scare the bejesus out of me when he came up behind me, rubbed my shoulders, and analyzed my personality.
I’m an ENFJ
according to him. Who the fuck does Myers-Briggs tests on people during bar
crawls? The third time was to remind me, again, that he has a crush on me. I’m
in his top 5 crushes. Oh joy.
|It felt kind of like this, except he's not cool like Jack.|
The Know-It-All Douche
At the third bar, I was sitting at a table with some new friends who were actually rather cool. We were talking when some guy comes up to our table, points at my wheelchair that is sitting beside the table, and asks about it. I smiled and told him it was mine and tried to go back to the conversation. Apparently he thought he was more important than the conversation, and started interrogating me.
Him: “Why do you use the chair? What’s wrong with you?”
Me: “Nothing. What’s wrong with you?”
Him: “Well, why do you use the chair then? How long have you been in it?”
Me: “Forever. How long have you been using your legs?”
THEN HE ACTS LIKE I’M THE ONE BEING RUDE!
Him: “I don’t know why you’re acting like that. I was just wondering. I do a lot of personal injury law, so I didn’t know if it was a skiing accident or something.”
A skiing accident? Is that what people think when they see people in wheelchairs? Oh, there goes another person who was in a skiing accident. Wtf?
Me: “Because that’s really inappropriate to ask someone.”
Him: “No it’s not. I do this kind of law.”
Apparently if you do personal injury cases you are free to approach all people and ask them about their disabilities. Don’t bother asking their names first – this guy certainly never asked me my name.
We reached the point in the conversation where I wanted to incinerate him, but I could tell my friends were uncomfortable, so rather than taking this douche down a notch, I tried to change the subject. He proceeded to tell everyone his name, how amazing he was, and that should we ever run into people with personal injury issues we should refer them to him. Yep. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’d love to give you business and force other people to deal with your smug ass.
The Babyface with “long-term potential”
At the last bar on Bar Crawl #1 I was sitting with my new lovely lady friends, dealing with the Old Creepster’s occasional come-on’s, when some babyface comes out of the bathroom and sits down with us. He told us that he was just riding by on his bike and saw everyone having a good time, so he decided to join. Because Babyface looked and acted like a child I began calling him Bueller. He had no objection.
I think Bueller’s best statement was “I know I’m only 22 and you’re lawyers, and I’m just a water meter repairman, but I’m still worth your time because I like older ladies and I have long-term potential because I have a pension. I’ll be able to take care of you someday.”
Apparently still feeling very insecure, despite the fact that none of us ladies were acting like we were better than him, he told us about how he’s somehow a Kennedy. And that’s he’s REALLY smart.
“Listen, I know you think I’m just a water meter repairman” he reminded us for the fifth time, “but I’m really smart. I’ve read thousands of books.”
“What’s your favorite book?” I asked.
“I’ve read the one about the angry grapes. And that one about mangos in the street” he tells us.
“You’re naming fruit, not books.” I told him.
Then he puts his hand on my shoulder, looked me dead in the eye and said “Are we going to hook up? Do you want to take me home?”
“Well, as charming as you are Bueller, I think I’ll pass” I told him as I wheeled away.
|Obviously I missed out on something great.|
The second bar crawl I went to was in my neighborhood, Coral Gables, and, as luck would have it, also themed “Red, yellow, green.” My friend asked me to join him and his friends at the bar crawl and since he’s my only cripple friend in Miami I definitely wanted to go. It’s not often that I get to party with crips down here since most of the crips in Florida are my clients (and oddly enough I don’t want to get sloshed in front of the people who think I’m a hardworking, responsible, legal professional).
Even though he’s my friend, seeing him drunk was a completely new side of him to see, so he’s the first in my cast of characters for Bar Crawl Numero Dos.
The Sloppy Crip
My friend is a quad in a power chair. He became a quad within the last year or two, so perhaps he’s still getting used to this whole “I drive a 300 pound machine” thing, but he’s a sloppy drunk that gave a bad name to ALL crips that night. First, let me state that I love this kid, but dear Lord, he’s a sloppy ho. As we were leaving one bar and going to the other, he straight up was driving his chair into brick walls. What the hell are you doing bro? There’s a BRICK WALL there! I mean, our power chairs can take out a lot of shit (lord knows I’ve taken down plenty of things) but they cannot take out brick walls. Just no.
I yell at him to stop making crips look like reckless drivers, he buys me a drink at the next bar, and we all start to dance. Fine by me. We’re all dancing and having a jolly time when at random he decides he wants to back up at full speed! HELLO WE’RE ON A CROWDED DANCE FLOOR! That’s like seeing a crowd of people at a concert and deciding you want to put a blindfold on and hit the gas of your car and just see what happens. People fucking fly. THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS!
I mean, come on, even if you’re walking, you look behind you before you back up so you don’t bump into someone, right? Nope, not this kid. He just plowed through people like they were bowling pins.
Then, when we go to leave, he decides that he doesn’t want
to go through the segregated, wheelchair accessible back entrance. More power
to you bro. I wasn’t thrilled about the Jim Crow entrance either. But instead
of gracefully going out the front door that had one step, mofo plows through the
door and straight into a bush. Oh dear lord. After the security guard and four
other people help him out of the bush, I go to leave the front entrance and
they think I’m going to make a similar mess.
|Every person on the dance floor.|
“Step aside boys” I tell them as I drive my chair down the front step like the fucking pro I am.
His friends then decide my criptastic friend is far too drunk to keep partying. So we begin walking back to his car when suddenly Mr. Criptastic (semi-fantastic) decides he wants to play speedracer down the sidewalks of Miracle Mile. Usually I’d be fine with this because I’m always going full speed in my chair, but I’m also not plowing through people like I get 5 points for each one I hit. Luckily my chair is faster than his, so I passed Speedracer and cornered him to ensure he wasn’t endangering these poor human bowling pins. But then suddenly he’s back to trying to take out brick walls.
FOR FUCKS SAKE PULL YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!
A few brick walls and some scared pedestrians later, we finally got him in his van & he went home.
The Lap Dancer That Doesn’t Know My Name
At some point before my crip friend started a fight with a bush, we were all having a fine time on the dance floor. I started talking to some guy who was decent looking and slightly entertaining. He introduced me to his friend as “the best fucking chick I’ve met all night.” I believe that was a fair assessment. His friend then bombarded me with questions about where I was all night (umm, at another bar crawl getting hit on by an old man and Ferris Bueller) and what I do. Blah blah blah. Suddenly I’m learning all about how he’s a lawyer (tax law – snooze) and he just LOVES life. How profound.
THEN OUT OF NOWHERE HE STARTS GIVING ME A LAPDANCE!
Excuse me sir, but just because I BYOC (bring my own chair) and sit in it, that is not an invitation for a lap dance. I will not tip you for this. I do not think it’s sexy, in fact, I think it falls more into the category of assault.
“Whoa! I didn’t ask for a lap dance! You shouldn’t be sitting on me, you should be carrying me!” I told him.
I shouldn't have said that because then Mofo picked me up and half carried, half-danced with me. After 10 seconds I told him to put me down, but he kept going throughout the entire song of “Timber” and even created a “dance move” of pretending to drop me every time Kesha said “It’s going down.” If you think that’s fun, it’s not.
As I went to leave, he asked me for my number, telling me I was the “coolest girl ever.”
“What’s my name?” I asked.
“Umm…” he replied.
“You want my number, but you don’t know my name?” I asked.
“You can put it in my phone” he told me.
“Fine,” I said as I grabbed his phone. I put my number in and for “name” I wrote “What’s Her Name?”
“Don’t call me until you know my name.” I told him as I rolled away.
Needless to say I haven’t heard from him.
Two bar crawls, five guys. 1. Old creepster that has had a crush on me since the day he met me. 2. Douche that think’s he has a right to ask people about their disabilities and I’m rude for not answering him. 3. Ferris Bueller who has a pension and long-term potential. 4. Sloppy drunk crip who would have about 450 points if he got 5 points for every person he hit. 5. Short guy who thinks I’m cool but doesn’t know my name.
1. There are no quality guys in Miami
2. Surprise lap dances are not cool.
3. I can see why some people are afraid of wheelchair users now.