Monday, July 11, 2011

Those Prepositions Are Pesky, No?

Here’s another one from my Rando Archives:
The scene: A mostly deserted street in Cork, at approximately one a.m. on St. Patrick’s Day (or rather, St. Patrick’s Night)

The players: Myself, Brie (who you already know) and our new friend, Catherine, who we met the night before at our hostel

After a fun-filled day that had passed in a haze of parades, Guinness and green, Brie, Cat and I spent the night crawling from pub to pub, playing King’s Cup with the handy pack of cards that Cat happened to be carrying and hunting for cute Irishmen (we didn’t find any that trip, though we did find some cute Aussies in Galway).

Just before last call, I got a hankering (as I usually do at about this time of night when the alcohol has been flowing freely) for pizza. We managed to find a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria that was still open and serving, so I forked over about 12 euro for a small pie, which seemed a slightly ridiculous sum in the sober light of morning, but at the time appeared to be quite a reasonable price to pay to soak up all of the stout ale sloshing around my stomach.

As we were waiting outside for our order, a slight man of average height ambled over to us, his uneven gait aided by one of those crutches that attach to the forearm.

“I,” he announced by way of introduction, “will do anything to you, if you let me have a slice of your pizza.”

Uncertain if he simply mixed up his prepositions and a bit perplexed by his sudden presence, we assured him that if he waited, we would give him a slice of pizza. We were feeling magnanimous, after all, and it seemed in the spirit of St. Patrick to give back to the Emerald Isle.

Rando McSeamus proceeded to engage us in a drunken and slurred and mostly one-sided conversation about how he didn’t actually need his crutch, but that it could be quite useful as a weapon. It was at this point that I went inside to check on our food, and Rando McSeamus presented Brie with a “diamond” ring, which she forgot about until she found it lodged in her pocket the next morning.

I returned with our mediocre Irish-style pizza (though it was pepperoni, and did not in fact have any potatoes on it), and presented Rando McSeamus with a slice, which he accepted gratefully and ate with much glee. Then, he made this pronouncement:

“But really, I will do anything to you…anything at all in your dirtiest imagination.”

We exchanged glances. Oh, so he really did mean “to you” and not “for you.” Well. That’s a bit awkward now, isn’t it?

Us: No, really, we must be going now.

Him: But what about the oral sex?

Us: We’re good actually. But…thanks…for the offer. We guess.

Him: I could come back with you to your room?

Sidebar: Thank God we had sense enough to lie about which hostel we were staying at for the night.

Us: Oh. Um, well you see, there are rules…about that. Yeah, they kind of...frown…on guests and…fraternization.

Sidebar: Yes, there were that many ellipses in our responses.

Him (looking genuinely confused): But I’ve done plenty of foreign ladies at Sheila’s!

Us: Yeah, well, I guess they must have changed the rules. Sorry!

And then we scampered back to our hostel (not Shelia’s obviously—who knows what kind of establishment she was running), laughing so hard we almost lost our snack. We devoured the pizza in a matter of minutes (as girls are known to do when there are no gentlemen around to witness it. Otherwise, we only eat one slice and daintily pronounce ourselves to be “simply too full to take another bite!”). There was some dancing, some more drinking, and then we snuck out to another bar called Sin E where I belted out “The Rare Ould Times” with another drunk Irish person, and later scampered back home with much merriment.

Luckily, we never saw Rando McSeamus again.

However, Brie still has the ring that he gave her…one day, B…one day.


  1. E,

    Your trip to Ireland sounds like a good, if not Rando filled time. I haven’t gotten to go there yet, but I have heard great things. I did, however, make a quick trip to Scotland during their Military Tattoo celebration in August.

    I got to see a lot of the countryside, and some of the urban life. One particular night after fun filled day of sight seeing, I found my inebriated self walk away from the safety of the bar, and head on out on to the dance floor. Now, over the years, I have taken a few dance lessons, had a few girl friends try to show me some moves, but what can I say…my white ass just can’t dance. Sure I can waddle to a tune or two and fake a slow dance when I’m required. But at the end of the day, I just hope she appreciates that I’m making the effort to be on the dance floor, because two left feet doesn’t even begin to describe me.

    As I was saying, I left the comfort and warmth of the bar for the unfamiliar dazzling lights of the dance floor. There were some cute girls out there and I had been taking in that liquid courage that allows men to bypass their better judgment and do the ridiculous. (Never underestimate the stupidity of man when a girl is involved!)

    So I’m out on the dance floor, and it’s fairly packed. The DJ was pretty good, the scenery was nice and from what I could tell, it turns out most Scotts can’t dance either (at least not the ones at this club/bar.) I figured out that as long as I kept my mouth shut, I passed fairly well for a local, a bit too well as I came to find out.

    The bar’s dance area was large, but as the night went it on, it seemed to get smaller and smaller until we were packed in like sardines. I didn’t think much of it, and tried to enjoy myself. Well, after a few songs, I realized that I was now pushed up against, or rather right on top of this older woman, who was clearly looking for age in appropriate guys. Now she was not the worst looking cougar I had seen, but she was definitely the most aggressive. By this point it’s pretty late, I’m pretty drunk, and my designated thinker was no where to be found. I decide a single dance with her wouldn’t be so bad…I mean its vacation, what do I care.(Plus there really wasn’t anywhere else to migrate too.) We dance for a bit, which quickly devolved well past inappropriate, as I was fairly sure she was my mom’s age, and she was attempting dance moves that I would be embarrassed to do in the bedroom much less the dance floor. Then out of no where, I release she was taking it to the next level and her hand was up my shirt.

    Sooooo not ok. I was drunk, not desperate (and she didn’t even offer me pizza…) I smoothly, or more likely, drunkenly pulled her hand out from my shirt, finished the dance with her, and told her I had to go restroom (which I did) and all but ran, as fast as I could through the crowd to get there. When I was in the bathroom I looked down my shirt and much to my surprise, I discovered I had been mauled by this cougar (who had said while we were dancing she was from Australia and thought I was a local.) Clearly, it was time to go. Yet, on my way out, as I rounded the last turn and thought I was home free, who do I see but the cougar guarding the exit with her apparent partner in crime. Without stopping, I smiled, pretended I couldn’t hear them over the music and just kept on moving. I didn’t stop until I made it to my hostile safe and sound where I got some fish and chips and enjoyed the rest of my evening not be stalked by the mauling cougar.


  2. Mark-
    I do believe this was your funniest post yet!!! Thank you for making my walk to work so enjoyable
    this morning :)
    P.S. You should probably be thankful there was no pizza or prepositions in Scotland. Who knows what the man eating cougar might have come up with...

  3. "I didn’t stop until I made it to my hostile safe and sound where I got some fish and chips and enjoyed the rest of my evening not be stalked by the mauling cougar."

    Freudian slip! Aren't there traps for cougars like that? No way to keep a fella safe!