No, I do not want to be your magicians assistant but thanks for asking.

I am very excited to share the myriad of trifeness that occurred this past weekend. It began when Queenie flew down to good old R-town on Friday and we partied like it was 1999 with some pals from work.

So after a lovely dinner just us gals, we ventured to Natty Greene’s, where apparently it was “Be as Trife as Possible Night”. We are sitting at the bar with our friends, I am telling a story about something not important but probably extremely funny, when I hear, “Excuse us, I know you’re in the middle of something but we want to ask you something.” Strike one. Of so many more.

Of course I stop talking and we give these two young men our attention. My first thought is that they are sort of cute but a little skinny for my taste. My second thought (before they started speaking again) was that maybe they could redeem themselves for interrupting me by having something cute or interesting to say.  “My friend here believes in magic,” the taller one says, “like the kind with magicians and rabbits and hats and stuff. I think it’s all bullshit. So we want to know, what do you think? Is magic real?” Strike two. THIS is what you interrupted me for? Oh but wait! It gets better. Queenie and I both agree, magic like that is all BS, all an illusion, and can always be explained. Hearing our answer, the shorter one pipes up and says he can prove that magic is real. At this point I am so tired of these guys I don’t even want to be nice or polite, I just want to walk away but the bar is crowded and I don’t want to give up my seat. He asks us if we have two dollars. We don’t. No one around us does. Shockingly, he finds two dollars in his pocket, shows them to us, and then folds them in fourths in a ball in his hand. Is anyone else cringing? I was, and was not taking pains to hide my displeasure with him and his money trick. He holds his hand out to me and tells me to blow on it. Blow on his hand. Like I am a 5 year old girl at the carnival. Strike three. I give him the not-amused eyebrow raise (not the cute smirky eyebrow raise) and blow because he’s being a pain in my tush. Then he proceeds to futz with the two dollars in his fist until he’s produced a $5 bill. OMG! Magic exists! EXCEPT then the other two dollar bills peek out from behind the $5, thus ruining his trick and his point. Strike four. And hilarious, something we also take to pains to hide. At this point, I deem it appropriate to turn around on my stool putting my back to both of them and continue my conversation with Queenie.

This definitely is in the book of worst pick-up lines/stories ever. I mean I can’t even explain how awkward, not cute, and irritating it was. Dudes: if you are irritating me, it’s not a good sign, and you should probably move on to a more drunk chick who might confuse your annoying-ness for attractiveness. But wait! It’s not over yet. [Right?! Some just don’t know when to call it quits.]

An hour or so and two or three beers later, same bar, same friends, these same two dudes approach us again. AGAIN. And once again interrupt our conversation with other, cuter boys. Strike five. “Hey listen,” says the taller one, “We were totally joking with that magic stuff earlier, we just wanted an excuse to talk to you ladies.” I laughed out loud because a) this is not news and b) it does not matter that they are admitting this now and c) it is just sad and hilarious. They both hold out hands to introduce themselves, trying to be cool in the face of my laughter. Their names might as well have been Dumb and Dumber for all the attention I paid to them and their limpy handshakes. Then the shorter one says, “I mean you two are the prettiest ones in here, of course we wanted to talk to you!” This is just ridiculous. After all of the magic jank, they think they can still charm us into a little flirty convo.  Queenie and I exchange that glance that only girls have that says are-you-freaking-kidding-me-could-this-get-any-worse. Their parting trifeness included using the word “seriously” way too many times, and pointing out their table in case we changed our minds later. Strike six. Sure! If I suddenly get amnesia I’ll let you know. And apparently later in the evening, one of them followed Queenie to the bathroom and waited for her outside the door (creepy and not cute guys, do not follow any girl to the potty, especially if she has shut you down greater than or equal to one time in one evening). When she came out, he asked her about the other boys we were hanging out with. As in, “are you serious with those guys? They’re so not as cool as me.” Strike seven and eight.

Un-freaking-believable and hilarious. Dudes, please read carefully and learn. Luckily, the evening got infinitely better after that trifeness. Stay tuned for more from Nascar-bomb weekend, each day gets better ya’ll!

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One response to “No, I do not want to be your magicians assistant but thanks for asking.

  1. Pingback: Your “Game” is terrible. Try again. « Miss Sassy Pants

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