Da baaaars

Something I have not often commented on publicly (lack of a proper forum perhaps being a valid reason) is my dislike of a certain night-time activity popular in my social circle.

Going out to to "The bars" (as this phrase is uttered, you can actually see glee and satisfaction manifest physically and drip down the speakers chin, pooling into a puddle on the floor.)

Now don't get me wrong. I am all for social interaction. Ask me any time of the week if I want to go play some pool, or ultimate, or halo, or dwarf-tossing, and there is only one answer you will receive. I am by no means a recluse (brown, or otherwise.) However, when someone asks me to go to "the bars" (their rabid eyes glowing with an eerie inner fire while rolling upwards into their skulls) warning lights go off in my head.

Ah, is this going to be a pleasant evening of humorous conversation, perhaps mingled with drunken attempts to scale tall buildings in a single bound and a heated game of tic-tac-toe? Perhaps ending in a enthusiastic Irish drinking song? OR... will this be a despicable night filled with shame and loathing, awash with that most horrible of human traditions... Dancing.

I cannot dance. I do not like to dance. I do not like to watch others dance. This is the ultimate trifecta of reasons why I avoid it like a STD. I can have... Mild fun, dancing in a circle of friends. As long as the circle stays a circle. As soon as some jack-ass decides "Hey, Im gonna be an ass and force everyone else to follow me into the circle!" I panic. Lets say I am 5th in line to "show my moves" like captain falcon.

Dude1: goes into circle, does some random breakdancey move

me: Shit. Crap. Shit. wtf am I supposed to do when Its MY turn?

Girl1: Pulling an invisible rope to her bff outside the circle (lucky bastard)

me: Crap. Thats not bad. I could do a move like that. The sprinkler!

Dude2: Does the mother F*&$@$ sprinkler

Me: ah... ah... ah... (hyperventilates)

However circles are still the very best kind of dancing that can EVER occur in a bar. God forbid people start pairing off, and... grinding each other. Sweet. Jesus. No. Here I am, dorkily dancing in peace... then out of nowhere OMG WTF WHY IS YOUR CROTCH ON HER LEG? WTF. LOL NO WAI (reference)

When this situation occurs, my only defense is to curl into the fetal position and rock myself back into sanity. The wounds I sustain from being trampled by the inebriated, writhing masses I can later show proudly as battle scars to my grandchildren. "See here sonny, I got this one back in '09, when a wee gel* rubbed 'er ass against me at The Foundry... 50 men went into the ba'... 19 men came outta the ba'... and not a one of 'em can speak o' the day."

*I have no idea what accent this is supposed to be. I think... Scottish sheepherder/British Pleb?

In conclusion... the next time I am invited to go to "The Bars" by a hypersalivating friend, the words seeming to bring a sense of euphoria every time they are uttered... I will still go, (fo' sho') But I will be much more cautious of that disgusting menace, that destroyer of purity... The dance floor.