The fourth of July is approaching and that reminds of one of the more memorable ones I have been apart of. I remember down at the bar, a couple of young broads walked in the place. One orders a cranberry and vodka while the other gets some sort of margarita (you're actually supposed to stir them, not shake them...sorry Mr. Bond). (Even though you may have taken 'roids, Mr. Bonds, I always thought you were a great player.)
Anyways, these two ladies take a seat somewhere in the corner, under the new flat screen (new at the time) and sip on the adult drinks. The one with the vodka looked like Cameron Diaz and Albert Einstein had a baby. I'm talking flowing blond hair wiggling all over the place, crooked glasses but in all due respect, that girl had some kind of backside, so good that Bode Miller would forgo his morning drinks to ski down it. The other one, with the margarita, had wild dark hair, a slender build and a look on her face that said "you can talk to me but it isn't going anywhere you want". Not that she was a
be-eye-tee-see-ache, but you know the type, pretty and tired of tired lines. The other girl wasn't bad herself, she had a more friendly glow to her but the type that might scorch you if you touch her the wrong way. I think it goes without saying that these weren't the type of girls that you go up to and spit the random, fraternity, bullfrog jive.
Stuff like that will stop most men, but not our plucky bartender Drake "Bull Frog" (I am sure you can figure out how he got his nickname) Fernandez. This cat goes up to the sexier of the two (he was not on shift that night) spits some bullfrog garbage about how he plays pro-baseball (surprisingly, that line worked a lot for him) and drops the simple line of "can I buy you a drink?". Subtle but lame, I suppose. Home girl looks at him, stoically, and coolly sways her head to the left as to say "you should probably leave, buddy" and goes back to the business she was attending.
Defeated and limp, Bullfrog Fernandez walks away with a spunkless gait and mumbles "so cold" to a decibel level to which he believed was audible only to himself. He was wrong, and the black hair girl, lioness in motion, creeps up behind, taps him on the left delt and as he looks, she finishes her drink and throws the icy remnants in his face and says "Who's cold now, (insert clever explicit). Me and the crew at the bar just broke up about the place. It actually turned into a game called the "Bullfrog freeze" in which a person would sneak up another person and throw ice at their face.
