16 Is The New 35 (Annie Goes to the Bar)

August 16, 2012 § Leave a comment

On Saturday, August 11th, I hit the lodge at the Idle Hour Resort to drink copious amounts of whiskey sours and shake my tail feather to the Rat River String Band. Yes, I am serious. I essentially line-danced with a bunch of hick conservatives. Where’s my medal for persevering?

This is the band:

The names of the members of the group are Thor, Ryan, and Mufasa, from left to right. I literally can’t make this up. The Northwoods is an alternate reality. (It was also hard to not steal the 45 dollars they made out of that hat.)

After a few string-heavy versions of various country classics I did not know, because I will vote for Barack Obama and use deodorant, the RRSB played “Cocaine Blues” by a Mister Johnny Cash. Needless to say I was soon dancing on the table, trying to keep my shirt on. (I’ll refrain from posting a picture. You’re welcome.) It was at this point that I drunkenly pointed out how much I’m into bassists to my bestie Kimberly, hereafter referred to as Kim.

“I am totally into that whole pony tail and beard thing he’s rocking!!! I am going to go talk to him!!” I said, screaming at the top of my lungs.

She looked utterly bemused and shrugged. “Okay. Good luck with that one.”

I sauntered (also known as stumbled) up to Mufasa (not his real name) and, in what I’m sure I thought was my hottest move yet, demanded to know how old he was. “Are you like, 35?!” I half-shouted in his ear. Normal people would say hello, you say? I’m not normal. In fact, I’m paranormal. The events that followed make me believe I am psychic, because I was asking alllll the right questions.

Mufasa looked unimpressed with my seduction techniques, and said “not important” before turning back to his bass.

I do not like to be rebuffed. In fact, no one says no to me, unless you’re my rude ex-boyfriend who refused to take me to Cabo.

I pouted back to my chair and informed Kim of my blatant rejection. “He looked just enough rock-n-roll to become super successful and pay for my future shopping rehab, but he doesn’t seem interested,” I said, whining and shoving my cleavage towards the bartender to signal my desire for another whiskey sour. He, too, ignored me.

“Yeah, I would hope not, since he’s sixteen fucking years old!” said Kim.


Still shuddering,



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