I Am Not a Werewolf
I’ll make this quick: I am not a werewolf.
Which, I must be honest, is exactly what a werewolf would say.
But, I’m not one. So I can say that. I think.
Let’s go back to why I’m having a hard time defending myself, and why I keep hearing Vincent Price narrate my nightly movements.
Last Saturday, on my night off mind you, a bride-to-be came out side and looked at me and my manager. Then she looked at her friend. Then back at us.
The moon was bright and nearly full.
Then she looked back at her friend.
And whispered something.
“No! They’re not werewolves!”
Phew. Thanks, friend. She almost suspected us. The bride-to-be in her white dress. With the white and silver sash. Silver. Huh. Guess I didn’t really remember that until now. Funny how things come back to you now and again.
No. 469: Flat Bottom Girl
A woman came up and presented her ID. And this was an actual Identification Card, not a Driver’s License. They difference being ID cards use the traditional elements plus weight. Why do they include weight? Not sure. And I’m not saying or implying anything about this woman’s eating habits of the last … her life, but she was not a 5-foot-3, 110-pound girl. Five inches and … more weight looks a lot different up close.
A minute after I put the ID in my pocket she came running back holding one of her shows.
You know, like a sane person.
She was claiming her heels made her seem taller than what her ID said. A natural defense.
If she wasn’t wearing flats.
470: Californicraytion
I must say, California ID in the Midwest is a bold move. First off, why the fuck did you come here, and why are you staying? You lived in California. I once built a snow pile taller than my head. By a foot. That’s 8 feet of snow. And then it snowed more.
Short story, if you look under 21 and bring a California ID, I’ll already assume you’re not smart enough to handle alcohol.
471: Let’s Make a Don’t
No, I’m not wheeling and dealing with you over your fake. I know it’s going to scan. Why? Because it’s real. Of course it’s real. But you know what’s not real, your math skills. Hint, your birthday is in …?
“November.”
“And it’s …?”
“September.”
“And you said you’re 24. And your birth year was 24 years ago.”
“Yes. I’m 24.”
“One more chance.”
“I don’t get it.”
No, and you’re not going to anytime soon.
11 Ways Not to Get Into a Bar
Birthday parties are great fun if you start early, and end early. Nobody wants to be face down in the toilet bowl on their 21st birthday.
And this is not speaking from experience. I didn’t even drink on my 21st birthday because I was at my uncle’s house for Thanksgiving. It felt out of place, plus I had been driving most of the day, and was frankly all pooped out.
I know, fun guy right here.
I digress, things not to do when coming to the bar on your 21st birthday.
Don’t show up with 11 tally marks on your arm. For your 11 drinks you already had.
Don’t have one of your friends call me a pussy. Man up, dude and call me the C-word. You’re already not coming inside, go for the gusto.
Don’t hiccup in front of the door after stumbling the entire walk from the car.
That’s an easy list to abide by.
Also, birthday or not, don’t call me a “Jackoff Asshole.”
First off, you don’t know me or my habits.
You don’t know the pain inside.
You don’t know the names I’ve been called.
Or the feeling that have been hurt.
Or the bones that break.
You don’t know what it’s like, to see the stuff I’ve seen.
Out of my large, bewildering, luminescent eyes.
In a deep, brilliant color.
To match the sun, reflecting off the harvest moon.
To signify the beginning of autumn.
Where the crisp air sends shivers down your spine.
Like a whisper through the trees.
And makes your hair stand on end.
Hair, thick as you’ve ever seen.
Black as the shadows of the forest.
Gray as the clouds above.
Until all you see when you’re up close to me.
Is what I want you to see.
And by then it’s too late.
So don’t you dare call me a Jackoff Asshole.
I am a werewolf.
Show me some Goddamn respect.
