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Home / Articles / Opinion / Sordid Tales /  Mentoring a horny, drunken Pacific Beach baboon
. . . .
Tuesday, Jan 22, 2013

Mentoring a horny, drunken Pacific Beach baboon

Lesson 1: Don’t hit on the bartender

By Edwin Decker
sordid-web Ed Decker

It was on a busy Saturday night, in a bar on Garnet Avenue, when I unknowingly stooled up beside a horny, drunken Pacific Beach baboon.

For those who don’t live in the area, Pacific Beach (P.B.) is a San Diego borough in which reside the most drunken, horny apes per capita. This isn’t to say there’s not a good number of libidinous hipster primates cruising the bars of North Park, nor over-sexed gorillas in the Mission Beach mist, nor drunky trust-fund monkeys living in La Jolla, but without a doubt, P.B. takes the apes-per-capita cake.

Sitting on the other side of the simian in question were two of his baboony friends, to whom he kept pointing out various women and blubbering things like “Can you believe those melons?” and—I swear he said this—“I’d love to dunk that ass into a fondue bowl!” Being a nature lover, I was delighted to observe this bonermob (the scientific term for a group of horny, drunken P.B. baboons) in their native habitat, but the one sitting next to me was clearly the alpha knuckle-dragger, so my eyes and ears were on him.

As I said, it was busy. Thanks to the relatively large space between us, it seemed to be the go-to spot for people to squeeze in and order drinks. If that person happened to be a female, the baboon wasted no time on small talk.

“Day-yum, girl, you are hot!” he said to the first little pretty who walked up, followed by—and I swear to
Christ in holy Heaven he said this—“I’d buy you a beer, but I’m afraid it will evaporate.” The young lady flicked him a vindictive Fuck off smirk and bailed the instant her drinks arrived.

“Dyke!” he murmured as she walked off.

Yeah, dude, I thought. She must be a dyke because a straight chick could never resist the game you got going on.

Fifteen minutes later, another hotty in a dark yellow top squeezed in, and may the Devil himself stab my eyes with his serrated tail if the guy didn’t say, “I love your mustard-colored shirt. Can I be your hot dog?”

So it continued, with several more females over the course of 90-ish minutes being bombarded with horrible pickup lines. It was so excruciating (read: wondrous) to watch that I had to intervene. I mean, yeah, the dude was a baboon—sure as Nicki Minaj will make Mariah Carey cry on American Idol this season—but I couldn’t, in good conscience, permit this travesty to continue.

“I know it’s none of my business,” I said, “but your method of picking up women is, um, problematic.”

“How would you know?” he replied, looking me over and probably wondering what an old, Ocean Beach Orangutan like me could possibly know about picking up women in this day and age.

“I have been bartending in joints like this for longer than you’ve been alive,” I said. “I have witnessed guys like you crash and burn so many times that the National Transportation Safety Board has me on speed dial.” (Ok, I didn’t actually say that last part.) 

“Well, then,” he said, with only a trace of sarcasm, “what am I doing wrong?”

“For starters, you can’t keep acting like it’s your first time at the zoo. Stop jumping up and down and pointing at every gazelle that gallops by. Secondly, ditch the pickup lines. Pickup lines are walls behind which social cowards prefer to hide. They are indicators that you’re afraid of her, afraid to be yourself around her. Also, you have got to stop hitting on everything that moves!”

“But the more times you try, the better chance you have to succeed—like the lottery,” he said.

“Look, I know: You’re young and male, and your hormones are as antsy as Charlie Sheen at a cokeless yacht party”—(OK, I didn’t say that, either)— “but women are not lottery tickets. You can buy 100 Lotto scratchers and the next one will not know or care that it’s number 101. Women do know, though, and they do care.”

“Oooh, I see. So, it’s not about quantity; it’s about quality.”

“Well, that’s true, yes, but that’s not what I—.” 

“OK, watch this move,” he said, waving to the bartender (a “quality” cutie to be sure). He ordered a draft, paid her with a 10 and asked to borrow a Sharpie. She returned with a Sharpie and a $5 bill, on which he wrote, “I think you’re wicked hot,” along with his phone number across Lincoln’s cheek. 

“Are you daft?” I barked, swiping the bill off the bar and replacing it with one of my own. You can’t hit on the bartender!”

“Why the hell not!?”

“Because female bartenders get hit on every night, in every possible manner. They have heard all the lines, seen all the tricks and tactics. They have special powers. They know what weak-ass game you’re going to bring simply by the stool you select.”

“You’re fucking crazy,” he said, standing up. And just like that, school was out of session. He rallied the bonermob to the dance floor. I stayed at the bar and continued drinking in a manner befitting an OBrangutan.

My memory of the rest is spotty. I remember watching the bonermob on the dance floor trying to work the old, “Let’s Dance Our Way Over to This Group of Girls and Nonchalantly Isolate Them from Their Friends” maneuver. I remember ordering another shot and a beer from the cutie bartender. I remember giving her a $5 tip. And I remember her looking at me with those “What are You Some Sort of Drunken Baboon?” eyes. Panic then! Cold, stark realization. I gave her the five with the love note on it. Oh, Christ to holy Heaven. Fade to black. 

Write to ed@sdcitybeat.com and editor@sdcitybeat.com. Edwin Decker blogs at www.edwindecker.com. Follow him on Twitter @edwindecker or find him on Facebook.

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