idiotpruf

Spending Quality Time With Known Felons in a Seedy Dimly Lit Bar

Just another small glimpse into my life. A special guest post written by someone who will refer to himself as Another Idiot (to many people it’s preferable to refer to themselves as idiots, than admit they know me). It does involve me and I will occasionally interject. Enjoy.

Picture if you will a seedy dimly lit bar, known for serving ice cold beer to bikers, farmers or bankers.

An eclectic crowd can be found at this fine establishment, enjoying all the ambiance of hunting gear, 1990s football paraphernalia, and NASCAR.

On any particular Saturday night, you could imagine the local trailer parks, backwoods cabins and downtown ghettos, had been abandoned for the solace of this drunkard’s utopia. It boasts the finest pickled eggs, and a variety of snacks that can conquer the most severe case of the munchies.

Idiotprufs’ note: if winning the battle over munchies results in losing the war against Salmonella, so be it.

Yes, this is my kind of bar.

On this night the bar was patronized by a handful of people. Two regulars sat at the far end of the bar. Myself and Idiotprufs sat at the other end of the bar, farthest away from the other patrons, closest to the ice-cold beer taps.

Three people entered the backdoor and proceeded to encroach upon the territory occupied by Idiotprufs and myself. With so much space in the bar, why would someone sit close? (Except to be close to the ice-cold beer tap, which always a good strategy.)

Would such an intrusion be justified?

The one newcomer sat next to me, the other was preoccupied with his goth looking girlfriend.

Idiotprufs’ notes: to be fair, she may have been goth, she may have been the living dead; it was a dimly lit bar.

The following conversation may or may not have happened:

Idiotprufs: my Uncle Pedro’s a decent guy.

(The names have been changed to protect the innocent, or the not so innocent, as Uncle Pedro is a known felon.)

Another Idiot: how can he be a decent guy; he’s a known felon?

Newcomer (jerking his head around): I’m a felon!

Another Idiot: that’s nice.

Idiotprufs: you seem very proud.

(From this point forward Newcomer will be addressed as Felon. It is proper etiquette, when in seedy dimly lit bars, to refer to known felons as Felon.)

Felon: I am proud!

(It was late, and all parties had been consuming alcohol, which is probably what spurred the string of inappropriate questions to follow.)

Another Idiot: what did you do?

(Awkward silence encompassed the next several moments. Without a response, Another Idiot decides to ask the most inappropriate question for the circumstance.)

Another Idiot: are you a sex offender?

Felon: no, I’m not a sex offender! I can get laid any time.

Idiotprufs: does that include your time in prison?

(The Felon glared at Idiotprufs with a dumb look on his face before averting all of his attention back to Another Idiot.)

Idiotprufs’ note: as it turned out, the dumb look on his face was just his face.

Felon: I can get girls any time. I bet I’ve had more girls than you ever have.

Another Idiot: you might be right.

Idiotprufs: just to clarify: you’ve had women or girls? Because one’s just creepy while the other is a felony.

Felon: I don’t even have to pay for it!

Another Idiot (looking at Idiotprufs): sex offender?

Idiotprufs (nodding in agreement): sex offender.

Felon: I’m not a sex offender; I was in for assault.

Another Idiot: so that’s his story.

Idiotrufs: I’m still wondering about the whole sex in prison thing.

Felon: I like to beat people up for fun. I could kick your ass! You want to fight?

Another Idiot: I’ll pass.

Felon: I love fighting, beating people up, kicking their ass because they’ve been disrespectful to me.

Another Idiot: I’m just drinking beer; you’re the ass who barged into my conversation.

Felon: Do you want to fight about it?

Another Idiot: so you’re proud of assaulting people?

Idiotprufs: your entire family must be very proud.

Felon (very agitated): we could fight right here!

It was at this point the bartender could sense the situation spiraling, and injected himself into the conversation. The situation was diffused after the bartender sternly whispered a few words to the Felon. The Felon backed off and relaxed a bit. He ignored us after that, apart from the occasional angry glare. The remainder of the night was uneventful.

Final Idiotprufs’ note: we may never know what the bartender said, but I’m willing to bet it was this: you idiot, you’ve just broken the first rule of Fight Club.