Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Girls just want to be left alone

Just came back from a super duper girls night out with J.Lo and Banana Chic. After we had a lip-smacking meal at Mori Mori, J.Lo drove us to a pool hall for some after-hours fun.

And it was fun ... until the drunks started building up courage. One after the other, a group of 10 guys/bearded women (all shady in character) asked us whether they could join our game of three:

"What do you mean you have high standards? Higher than this?," so said Burly Burlesque Santa as he took off his shirt that reeked of alcohol and a certain je ne sais quoi I'm not enticed to pinpoint.

J.Lo and I ignored them, but Banana Chic reacted politely and sweetly declined the incessant offers. One guy in particular kept approaching her because she was being, well, herself.

"Er," Banana Chic replied awkwardly. "I think you should ask my friends. Um, guys?"

J.Lo and I looked at each other.

"Wow, Lily!" J.Lo exclaimed. "Look at that ball go!"

Banana Chic slowly stepped away from him. "Um, so can he play with us?"

I bent over and aimed for the shiny blue sphere opposite the boy with the blistering blue balls.

"Oh J.Lo," I said through pursed lips. "Missed again! Ha ha ... ha."

We were blatantly rude so needless to say we had no chance of hitting the jackpot with the Fugly Gang the way Banana Chic did.

"Here's my number," he said as he leaned into her, his plaid shirt bringing out the green in her face. "I want to take you out to dinner."

She made up some excuse (ie. a boyfriend), but he gave her his phone number anyway. I took it and dropped it in the corner pocket. Aussie Matt said it was very Freudian of me; he practically scored. I said it was a leather pocket; practically gay.

But the toothless grins made even that option an improbability.

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