Tell Me You Are Not That Stupid

I watch football in the afternoon and then meet Milkshake at the bar. She is drunk by the time I get there. I fight hard to catch up. We play some darts. Froggie and Smoke come and we shoot some pool. Baby Girl, Big Pop and Fort Dodge come through. I spend the last of the night talking to them and wondering how I’ve already run out of cigarettes. I say I’m going to head home but Big Pop takes my keys. I slam a couple glasses of water, talk some more shit and then beg Big Pop to give me my keys so I can go. Milkshake calls to tell me she got home okay. I complain to her that Big Pop won’t give me my keys back and I have to work in a few hours. She gets on the phone and I hear him laughing. “She has her keys. I gave them back to her five minutes ago.” Oops, my bad. There they are in my pocket. I decide I best get home and get some rest.

I try calling Gloves. He doesn’t answer. I hang up and try to figure out who else I can call to entertain me. Tiny? Smoke? MOB? King Andrew? Unfortunately none of those sound appealing at this point. Five minutes later, as I make my way upstairs to my bedroom Gloves calls me back. I ask if he wants to come over. He says he can’t. He sounds funny and I ask what’s wrong. Why is he whispering? He says he has company. What? She’s asleep. No, you did not just call me while your friend sleeps in your bed. You’re not that stupid. Right? Right? Wrong. I am fuming. Not only for myself but also for her and all of womankind. This sparks a nearly two hour debate that I can barely remember and am pretty sure I did not really win.