And Thus, I Palm a Drunk Dude's Head (and he doesn't mind)

The Brunettutan:

Trade show evenings are unfailing fraught with alcohol-soaked pseudo-professionals gone wild, and for someone who takes great joy in fucking with people, they provide an indulgence of opportunity for one to do so. 

One such evening, I was enjoying friendly banter with some colleagues in the courtyard of a lively bar on Bourbon Street. The evening had shifted from late night to early morning, and the nocturnal hunters were becoming desperate for prey.  

Since my late nights are primarily motivated by social interaction as opposed to inducing alcohol poisoning, I was substantially more lucid that the majority of my bar-mates. 

There was a break in conversation within our group, and we all casually shifted focus. Just as I was turning to walk across the courtyard to chat up a friend of mine I had just spotted, I was very abruptly stopped by a tall, company-logo-polo-shirt clad dude. I guess he thought I would be more weak and vulnerable, having been separated from my main group. 

News for you, big boy … you watch WAY too much Nat Geo Wild. 

 He heavily staggers into my path, and the first slur out of his mouth is, “Heyyyy, you here for the trade show?”

Of course, genius, 90% of the people in this bar are all attending the same trade show. The other 10% look like spring breakers or extras from deliverance. 

“Yep.”

“Coooool, yeeeeeah …. Me too.”

“Really? Because the khaki pants and logo on your shirt weren’t nearly obvious enough.”

“Ohhhh, heh, yeah … right.”

I move to step around this goofy dude, and he puts his face about three inches from mine and asks me where I’m from. I instinctively step back, and look at him like he’s slapped my grandmother. I really don’t like close-talkers. 

I sigh, and answer the dude. And it turns out, OMG!, he’s from the same state! He’s so excited by this, he again puts his damned face three inches from mine to express his surprise. 

This time, instead of stepping back, I simply palm his entire face, and push it back about a foot and half, and inform him that he is, indeed, talking way too close to me.

I expect his ego to be bruised enough by this, that he calls me a bitch and decides to pursue an easier meal for the evening. But no … it didn’t even phase him! In fact, he even kept talking while my hand was on his face. 

And this, people, is why drunk dudes can be gratifyingly fun to fuck with … they have very little to lose at this point in the evening. They will tolerate almost anything as long as it keeps the conversation going. 

So, the conversation continues in a sort of predictable cadence:

Dude makes it about 45 seconds before leaning close enough to me that I must alert him that he’s talking too close. I give him about 5 seconds to redirect his lean, before I redirect him myself … using his face. He’s almost like one of those blow-up clown punching bags with sand in the bottom. No matter how many times I push him back, he bounces right back up again. 

This occurs no less than 10 times in the course of our relatively short conversation. it is so absurd to me that he’s put up with it for this long, while I’ve made it very clear he has absolutely no chance for anything beyond this little chat with me … I have to laugh at the guy. He’s been good-natured enough I end our conversation on a friendly note, and turn and walk away. 

I look down at my open palm … I would pay $50 for some hand sanitizer right now