to send for publication?
I've already written about this here, but I'm thinking of sending this rewritten little thing to a local magazine to see what they have to say about printing it.You guys do me a favor and read it and tell me what you think. Is it funny? Is it interesting? Comment away!
Buckhead is exerting an insidious and terrible power over the fine young ladies of our fair city. Somehow this section of town has gained considerable powers of mind control, and is attempting to thin our population by convincing these women not to wear a coat out, even though it's positively and demonstrably as cold as a polar bear's tile floor. This causes visible shivering, accompanied with the pronounced hardening of certain unmentionables which leaves our poor Atlantan sisters looking as though they are attempting to smuggle a hatrack under their shirts. Admittedly, this effect is not all that terrible to me.
It was on just such a night that Mark G Patterson and I found ourselves walking through the multicolored lights of Buckhead. The wind whipped through, encouraging girls in tiny shirts and tiny skirts to flutter faster down the sidewalk like startled birds. They chirped to one another about the horrible cold as though no one could have expected it. Mark and I laughed at one another about how drunk we each had gotten as though no one could have expected it. Go figure.
We took the shortcut down an alley, and came back out on the sidewalk around the corner. We walked quickly up the ramp to the bar. There was almost no one inside, but it was warm, at least. There was a gentleman there who was quite clearly drunk out of his mind. He was dancing in the way that only drunk or severely mentally impaired people dance, which is to say he looked like he was miming someone at the business end of a vicious beating. The three ladies with him, all of considerable bulk, swayed around him to the music the band was playing.
We were there to collect Frog, my roommate, and go to the next gig. He had a few minutes of playing left, so we sat our foolish selves down and watched the Beaten Mime and the Girls dancing it up down front. Frog gave us the finger from his perch on stage, reaching over the neck of his bass to grab his beer between songs. My head spun slightly. The next song began.
The guys got into a rather fast number, and I could tell the tempo was more than the Beaten Mime could manage, so I looked on with glee, just waiting for him to fall over. He stumbled a few times, but his fat fates were there to sort of push him back upright. He shuddered onward though, at what must have been the very brink of his abilities, when suddenly his elbow knocked the tipjar that had been sitting on a stool at the front of the stage over. It tumbled, spilling the ones and fives onto the board floor, some of them slipping through the cracks.
As the Beaten Mime slouched over to collect the bills and stick them back in the jar, my Really Stupid Idea Veto mechanism failed entirely.
"ASS HOLE!" I screamed.
The guy's head snapped up. "Oops!" I thought.
"Who said that?!" he shouted at Mark and myself.
Now, it's important to note here that Mark, although an excellent promotions guy and a fine American, is not a terribly large fellow, and he is of a fairly mild and polite manner. With all this in mind, my Really Stupid Idea Veto mechanism shorted out once again.
I pointed at Mark. He gave me his best "What?!" look. The Beaten Mime lowered his head like a bull and charged at Mark, but was brought up short by one of the girls with him. Try as he might, he couldn't get around her to get at us, and the other two girls joined in to hold him back. He screamed bloody murder, but we were safe behind his three large ladies.
Eventually he simmered down and went back to his standing seizure dance routine, and we waited for Frog to pack up so we could leave.
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