Here’s a dude outside my bar - in the daytime. Alcohol does some weird shit to already weird people. Take the Freddie Mercury inspired, Borat wannabe above… He’s either (a) a glutton for a beating (b) been rejected by every S&M hookup in the back of The Village Voice (c) a really, really lonely Financial Analyst by day (d) bust 3 nuts a day whacker extraordinaire or (e) all of the above. But don’t kid yourself… just ’cause he’s the poster child for losers, doesn’t give him balls the size Bowling Green’s resident bronze bull.
He didn’t walk into my bar in that brazen Coco Austin-inspired swimsuit – oh no… Our man first approached me at the bar in a seemingly ordinary jacket. Five or six drinks later, amid a sea of 4pm diners and boozehounds, simpleton decides to go balls out and make damned sure that I, and everyone around me, can all see just how much junk he’s packing. Not surprisingly, meatsack was swiftly escorted outside where he lingered for a bit to the delight of many a passerby.