You know what normal is?
Good, because more and more, I don’t and, at this juncture, I think I’d like for someone to tell me. There was a time when I was assuredly resolved that I knew and understood this nutty city we call home, but alas – in the wise words of the Americans – who’da thunk it? The lunacy has no end, people.
It all started when Sarah insisted that I go out the other night. She said I’d find “inspiration” out there.
So it was that I found myself George-Jefferson-Strolling into Skylux: some new club in Westlands that I had never heard about. Apparently that was the venue for the night as about 4 different unrelated groups of friends and co-workers had independently found themselves there. But it seems only 3 of those groups made it in.
The fourth was at the entrance engaged in what seemed to be a shouting match with security.
Rule #1: Do NOT call the bouncer “an idiot”.
I don’t care if the guy just stole your lunch money and took a piss on your Weetabix. Heck, he could’ve sucker punched your baby and French kissed your wife. Let it go. He is bigger than you. His friends are bigger than him. You can accidentally become a casualty – or worse, a snack. I had a bouncer friend once. I went a few months without seeing him and then when we finally linked up, he hugged me so enthusiastically, he broke most of my torso. And that was only while greeting me.
This bouncer, however, was not greeting us. Nor was he my friend. This guy looked like he ate bowls of steamed human heads for breakfast and then open roasted the corpses for lunch. For dinner he came to clubs like this and then waited for an excuse. He was now looking hungry – and angry – pointing at one of my cohorts. And not “pointing” in the way you and I would point from a distance. No, he was about 2 inches away from this guy and he was pointing straight into his chest as though he was trying to tickle his heart – violently. Apparently, my boy couldn’t enter the club because he was wearing a green t-shirt. Curious, I asked whether the issue was the color or the fact that it was a t-shirt. But at that very same moment my boy called the burly bear of a man “IDIOT!”
Suffice it to say, he did not need his feet to find himself standing outside the club. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay outside.
By this time I had resorted to sneak in.
Rule #2: Co-ordinate your Chips.
I got to the top floor and immediately ran into another guy I know from…somewhere. He tapped me on the shoulder, we exchanged business cards and then some smoking hot pair of legs walked by. Now, I’m seldom one to judge a woman by her physical attributes but wow: this specimen….
Anyway, I look at my boy and he’s nonchalantly tapping her on the shoulder. She turns. They hug. Clearly they know each other. And judging by the hug, they know each other well. See, there’s a rule about body percentage contact; the more contact made in a hug, the more likely they are/have been soiling sheets. So while they’re standing there in that locked embrace, ignoring me, another equally interesting case study walks out of the club. I’m tempted to try and “halla” at this one, seeing as I’m tired of spectating these two f**k-buddies get their hug on. Right as I do this, Girl#2 peeps over my shoulder and then calls out my boy by name. Angrily.
He lets go of the other girl and then begins to st-utt-er…stutt-ter. Then she points at the other mini-skirt donning girl and starts yelling out profanities. My boy looked over at me and tried to pass the baton. But right then, my buddies from downstairs – Rule#1 – they made into the club, minus the green t-shirt guy. I wanted to help(not really) but now I was being dragged into the club. I left him out there to sort out these two women he was cheating on as a third one emerged, even more livid. I have not heard of or from the man since.
Now I’m inside SkyLux and it’s a lovely place. I was trying to enjoy it and walk around but first I had to make a pitstop at the bar. Out of nowhere, this random broad introduces herself to me and, 2 minutes later, begins…ehm…it’s not ‘dancing’ when it’s done the way she did it. She was trying to grind the pants off my legs or something. Right then, some big dude taps my shoulder and then taps hers.
She smiles. I piss myself.
Rule #3: Do NOT introduce me to your husband.
I’m recently single and somewhat indifferent about the whole matter. Suffice it to say, I learned that there’s a lot more to life than just trying to make a relationship work and sometimes that wake up call is very necessary. Given that I was in this mind frame, I really was not interested in what the little lady had to offer. In fact, I was not here for the ladies, I was here to drink a Red Bull, puff an Embassy Lights and then be on my merry way.
But how was I going to explain that to this folklore Giant before he ground my bones and used them for salt on the rhino he was going to have for a midnight snack in a few minutes? I couldn’t think of anything, so I looked over to the smiling lass on my lap. I wanted her to just say “I was just dancing” or something to that conclusive effect and then walk away with Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum and his acute sense of smell. Instead what does she do?
She pulls her skirt down – and by ‘skirt’ I mean ‘that belt of cloth that had hiked up her posterior – and then says: “Hey baby, remember John?”
The leviathan nods, confused. I do the same.
“Well this is John’s cousin’s friend’s co-worker, iCon. He lives in X-Neighborhood and works at x-establishment on Monday to Saturday, 8am to 5pm. He hangs out at these places and…well, he’s just a good friend and I really wanted to dance with him.”
Let me break that down for you. She gives this dude my full CV and FAQ then says “I really wanted to dance with him.” While smiling. And still on my lap.
I knew I was dead – everybody did. I didn’t even see my life flash before my eyes; just the grim reaper walking into the club and then pointing at me with a smile on his faceless skull.
Turns out the husband was a little bit of an idiot. OK, a lot. So he got confused by what she had said, grunted twice, and then remembered the rhino he had left in the microwave. He shook my hand and then picked up his wife, stuffed her in his pocket and climbed back up the Bean Stalk.*
Now not only do I live in fear of him ever descending when he’s hungry and knowing exactly where to find me, I also have to worry about those three scandalously hot broads outside who probably think less of me by association – and my boy who’s not entirely happy I didn’t help him mop up his mess.
But my greatest fear is that one day, I’ll walk into that club and the bouncer will think I was the guy that called him an idiot.
It is for these reasons that I have penned my Will and Testament.
I have also invested in dental coverage. Because at this rate, you never know.
*events modified to suit metaphor