Szzzzizzle

Readers!  I forgot to tell you something about Tuesday. 

So Neil and I went to get a bite to eat before we went to the David Sedaris show.  We settled on a pub that we like which was conveniently located near the venue.  It's a pretty busy place, being directly across from parliament and all.  It was so busy that we had to sit at the bar until a table was available.  Fine.  Drank beer.  Avoided the weird stare-y regular who was sitting beside us.  You know.. the guy who doesn't sit with his knees to the bar; he sits with his knees toward you and just kind of slouches and half drunk smiles at everything you do with heavy eyelids.  He says intermittent franglazed (half french/half english/halfdrunk/mostly french) things to you-  And the bar owner calls him Gaston.  By name. This is their best customer. 

And then the damned Gaston song from Disney's Beauty & the Beast song ran through my head for the rest of the night, except I don't know the real words so my brain took it upon itself to sub in ones that seemed probably right. 

♫♪♫ Noooooo Ooooooone ♫♫ ♪

drinks-like-Gaston 

No-one-thinks-like-Gaston 

♫ ♫♪ In a farting match nobody stinks-like-Gaston..... ♪♫♪♪

I think that's how it goes.  Anyhow, we finally got offered a table.

Waitress: We have a table...  it's a little high

Us simultaneously: We want it
Waitress:  Are you sure?  It's THAT one.. *points* The old Johnson's table.. some say it's haunted..
*suspensful flamenco guitar music*

Us:  We'll take it.  We've been waiting for ever.... *zoom in* ....and ever ... *zoom out* ...and ever.... *zoom in again** shake the camera a little*...  *this is getting out of hand*

Waitress:  Seat yourselves.  

Ok, so the table was appx 7 feet high with chairs that were roughly 4 feet high.  So basically you sat at them like you were 3 years old with the edge of the table at about chin level.  I wanted to ask for a phone book to sit on but APPARENTLY nobody makes phone books anymore.   So I sat on my blackberry; didn't do me any good (didn't do me any harm).

Whatever.  We only had about 45 minutes to eat before the show so we just dealt with it.  We are flexible.  No really-  physically flexible; we had to be in order to accomplish the acrobatics required to sit there and drink beer from pint glasses without the aid of bendy straws.

I ordered a nice steak and mushroom boxty, Neil had fish and chips.  Both excellent (although mine was quite substantially better than Neils). I drank Keith's on tap and Neil had Guinness (again, mine was better). 

So as I mentioned in my previous blog entry about the evening, I'd decided to wear clown-red lipstick in order to procure a spot in David Sedaris's memory.  Eating dinner at a precarious table, wearing waxy red lipstick and drinking beer is a commitment unto itself and I knew I'd smeared a lip or two worth of it during my dancefight with Alexander Keith's pale ale.   So I finished wolfing down my super awesome dinner, chugged the rest of my beer, stood up,  arranged my pants and headed to the ladies salle d'eau (past a man with one eye, by the way.  I just felt like I should tell you about that.  Not that I stared.  Gaston says staring is caring.  Stop judging me so much all the time, Geez.  He had one eye but two eyebrows... and he was wearing a suit.).  

I just threw this together.  It's not like I remember very many details.  I didn't like.. trip because I was staring or anything.

I wonder if he can read braille with his good eye.  It's a valid question. 

Anyhow, I made it to the ladies room which is where the heart of this story lies.   I went to the mirror to survey the damage from eating boxty & drinking beer at the funhouse table.  Not terrible... not great.  Lipstick was off and it left a hot pinkish residue everywhere.  GRrr...  So I reapplied my lipstick and was checking for smudges when something caught my eye on the wall: it was a big pink machine, Readers.  "Ehhh?"  I got closer.  There was a coin slot labeled "$2" .  And on the right hand side, there was a holster- and in that holster there was a big black...  flat iron; a ghostly cameo portrait on the wall behind it of a women with a big, blond, floppy coif- her eyes looking off into the distance in 2 different directions;  a siren calling you to her heaty wares.  I took some photos:

"Hither thou cometh unto me to transform thine locks upon these heated plates... Toonie coin in hand, thou cannot resist to mimic my flopping, lusty  follicles ....  Come closer, child of vanity and kinkethed tendrils; stumble forth.  Bestow upon thyself my smooth pay-styles... Hush now... be still... be calm.... Do no resist... Do not close your eyes... Come unto me with thy coin... Gentle lady pray, let me take it from thee." 

Whoa.

Right. So there was a vending flatiron in there and near the bottom of the pink machine there was an informative label:  High temperatures ensure plates remain sterile.  Excellent.

WELL.  Isn't that a good idea!?  My goodness, what a marvel technol..... Wait a minute, isn't this a drinking establishment?  An IRISH drinking establishment?  Full of hopeful cougars and Franglazed people called Gaston and cyclops politicians?  Err...  Isn't anyone concerned about drunk women waving searing hot plates around in the bathroom?  Because contrary to what you might currently think, Fellows, all sophistication leaves once you enter a ladies pub bathroom.  They can't be trusted with this kind of technology. 

 

AND I'm beginning to have my suspicions about how that guy lost his eye in the first place. 

 

 

It's a lawsuit begging to happen.  Hell, I was tempted to just kinda... you know..  give my face a little singe so that I could be the one who gets to sue them.. I mean for Pete's sake- the place is almost directly across from the Supreme Court of Canada.   I wouldn't even have to go far to get the ball rolling on my millions of dollars in compensation.  However, the grossness won out and I didn't touch it because I don't care how hot the plates get, I don't want anybody's fried, sterilized bar lice on me.  Not even if I would look effin' fantastic with a large, floppy blonde disco hairdo. 

I don't know, maybe the bar owner was just upping the anti for post drunken bathroom makeovers.  Because if that's the case, I get it.

The End.