Wingman

Friday nights at the Lodge are substantially less fun than weeknights. After paying a cover (are ya kidding me? This is a dive bar in Lancaster, PA!) and searching for a decent table, you must suffer an interminable roster of horrible bachelorette and birthday party singers before getting a chance to sing. The smoke is unendurable, the noise grating, the service abyssmal.

Last Friday night Bobulah and I went to the Lodge, thinking the July 4th weekend would thin the herd a little. We were right! After settling in to our table we each filled out a pile of song slips and presented them to our pirate friend, Captain DJ Star. Arrrgh.

Because we both were in mopey and cranky moods, Bobulah and I sat and drank our Miller Lite and Lager (respectively) and took in the hideous performances silently.

A foursome of the Trying-Too-Hard club of dumb bitches came in, giggling and thrusting out their bosoms. "Hi, Trouble,honey!" they called out, I grunted in return. I hadn't met the fourth before, she was a very shy and very overweight girl whose well-fitting and modest clothes clashed dramatically with the hootchies she was with. Spent less than a second pondering that curiousity, as a some guy promptly came over and sat down beside me.

"Don't mind me," he said, grinning, "I was set up to meet that girl (pointing at the heavy girl with the skeezes) and, well, I'm looking for a way out."

I thought about braining him with my cellphone, but was truly too disinterested to protest much. "What did you have in mind, exactly?" I asked him, and he did his best to backpedal and offer assurances of not trying to hit on me. He just wanted to pretend he was with our group so he wouldn't have to talk to the unfortunate girl.

"Whatever." So he sat with us, occasionally trying to start conversations by overplaying what little charm a 22-year holds for [ahem] more mature people. We sat and watched. We sang. Once again, the smoke and hot lights melted my mascara in the middle of my performance, further ruining my mood.

The shrill skanks were in a hot lather about the fat girl's "date" with Mr. Dude, who was sitting with [gasp!] Trouble. They intercepted the poor sap on his way to the bar and the men's room, haranguing him about how badly he was treating their friend. They cast death glares in my direction. I continued not to care.

We left at closing and Mr. Dude followed us up the stairs and into the parking lot.

One week later: The girls put their gossiping into overdrive, and I received impertinent questions from people who ought to know better about my personal life. I have four new enemies. Whoopee.

Is there any benefit at all to being a Wingman?