Friday, June 01, 2007

How the Mighty Have Fallen

A number of years ago, Rory discovered that one could get on a “guest list” at GT’s and skip the line. I really only have vague recollections of this, so it probably had something to do with his birthday. Not “vague” because we got snarbuckled, but because Rory’s birthday parties usually have us folding old refrigerator boxes and taking them to the recycling plant. Just really dreary, unmemorable stuff. Not unlike Rory, I hasten to point out.

In our first installment of People Who Are Having Less Sex Than You: Guy in the middle there

Anyway, to get on this guest list one had to give up an email address. Thus, as a consequence, I’ve been getting various promotional emails from GT’s for the past 3 years. Somewhat annoying. The other morning, however, I got an electronic communiqué that brought a tear to my eye, so depressing a picture did it paint of a once-glorious drinking spot/site of almost thirty Smith shoot-downs over a five-year period (in that they were shooting me down).*

GT’s is now enforcing a dress code. This on its face is pretty lame, but wait till you get a load of the stuff they’re codifying out of the place:

- No hoodies up in the bar
- No angled hats
- No gang coulours/tattoos
- No medallions/chains worn over clothes
- No grills
- Lugz must be tied up
- No baggies

See people, this is what happens when you open your bar to Fanshawe students. Ha, no, I kid (no, seriously). And, all good things to guard against to be sure, but – my god – why do these have to be prevented in the first place? Has the vaunted GT’s – once a place to spend a solid evening any night between Thursday and Saturday, inclusive – sunk to the point where they have to ask patrons to keep their grills at home? Dress code or no dress code this is a bad sign, for, as the old adage goes, “if she says you don’t need a condom, you probably do.”

Or maybe it’s that the old Spikester has entered his Carlsberg years, hmm? I must admit, the siren song of the dance floor is less alluring than it once was. And a lanky, balding, creepy, (comparatively) old school teacher is probably not the hottest ticket going.
Yep, reckon I ought to start packing it in. Start tucking in my shirts outside of work, brush my hair forward over my forehead, put the Nintendo in the closet and start saving for that widescreen plasma today. While I’m at it, better start paying attention to interest rates, figure out just what a GIC is and start putting a little something away for Maximus’ education (he’ll be my son). And, heck, why stop there? Now that I’m about to become a reputable member of society, what use have I for 6.0 Schlitz tall boys? No, it’s Moosehead, Rickard’s or Keith’s for me, or Stella if the wife’s calendar is right.

Ahh, and that pesky wife! Without a dance floor on which to snag one, to where will I turn to get a woman? I’ve been trying in vain for years to get my name out there with graffito tagging, sky-writing and hobos wearing sandwich boards. None of these (particularly the last one) has yielded results. Efforts must be redoubled upon my glorious return to civilization. Right after I get Anarchos to level 70, that is (note Cameron's amusing pun).

Ahh, alcohol and the objectifcation of women. How I'll miss you.

* How did I arrive at this figure? In a typical school year, we get (or “got”, if you want to ruin things) roughly 30 weekends. Many times we went out multiple times per week. However, I guess that there were an equal amount of times where – again, due to Rory – we stayed in. Thus, I estimate my chums and I went out an average of 30 nights in a year. You multiply that by 4 (owing to the year I was “off the market”, as the kids say) and get a solid 120 nights out during which I was available. You have to figure we spent a quarter of those at GT’s, bringing us to 30 evenings once more. Accounting for the 2 instances at GT’s during which the odds somehow went in my favour, and you’ve got yourself 28 sad, lonely cab rides home.

Interesting bonus fact: The chimpanzee from the Tarzan movies from the 1930s is still alive.

4 Comments:

Anonymous Sweetopopulous said...

Freaking Rory always messing things up with his lameness...that is why I still, to this day, refer to him as Sandy Vagina.

12:57 pm  
Blogger Mike said...

Yeah, tell me about it. Stupid Rory and his "desire" to get into "dental school" and not be a "failure."

2:27 pm  
Anonymous Andrew said...

If Rory hadn't been on our hall in first year I can almost guarantee that you would have only experienced a maximum of 26 lonely, soul destroying cab rides home alone.Old Chicago's would have been a regular hang out too, not that crappy pool hall that Rory used to insist we go to on Friday nights, eating nachos and shooting pool while he drank mojitos.

9:23 am  
Blogger Mike said...

"Guys, I think the mint in this thing is giving me a headache. Can we just skip the mini putt?"

10:18 am  

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