Fucking Pink Shirt Guy

It was Sunday Night. Labor Day weekend in the San Diego Gaslamp district. I reluctantly went to a bar with my brother, his girlfriend and her brother (who will now simply be referred to as 'my friend' for simplicity sake). We walked past hordes of shirtless meatheads in line for another bar that all could be on www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com. I wanted to bash everyone of them in the face with a frozen duck while setting fire to their roid-shrunken genitalia via flamethrower.

Despite my deep seeded hatred for the common modern day D-Bag, I blame said phenomena on the incredibly attractive girls that reward such behavior with attention, caressing of such supple skin that Wild Bill would not need to rub lotion on, and actual naked time. I still find it hard to believe that such guys are capable of paying enough attention to a hot naked girl that he is able to take her to a happy place previously reserved for those nights that she locks herself in her wine soaked bathtub alone watching, "a river runs through it" with power tools that make Bob Villa jealous.

So, once we past the hordes of D-Bags, we enter a piano, not currently populated with meatheads and morons. We get in for free because of my friend. So far we are doing well.

I feel I should now interject that my friend is a professional bartender and has a certain advantage at picking up girls in bars. I, on the other hand, seem incapable of getting a date with any girls that are not in need of serious psychological evaluation. Knowing my limitations, I still have difficulty getting dinner dates out of a prison for the mentally insane. Apparently most girls would rather eat prison food than talk to me, and the few that are charitable enough to let me see them naked have serious daddy issues and are a very very small portion of the population. So competitively speaking, I didn't plan to be able to meet any girls with him as competition.....but an awesome wingman he did make.......if it weren't for the FUCKING PINK SHIRT GUY.

So, back to the story.

We are in the piano bar. It's crowded. At capacity. People are singing along, and my friend gets us a few "discounted drinks" because he knows a few people here. I don't drink, but you have to be at least holding a water or people give you strange looks. Kurt Russell explains it well in Deathproof. It seems like a fun place, but I have a long drive that night and I wasn't even planning on going out.

But then it happened.

My friend, within 5 minutes of being there, starts talking to this girl. She is kind of a chubby Kirsten Dunst girl, but all smiles and miles of cleavage and already a little drunk. So he is going for it. And she is all over him. Her friend, the thin, tall brunette, that is REALLY drunk, now needs someone else to pay attention to. Not wanting to appear too eager, I don't talk to her much. She talks to my brothers GF. She talks to her friend. She talks, a little, to me. She is drunk, but coherent enough to complete a sentence and know what is going on. Not coherent enough to dance well, but drunk enough to want to. With me. Even though nobody else is dancing.

I find out they are on vacation from New York. (Good sign)

I find out her friend wants her to hook up with me. (Great sign)

I find her touching my arm and holding herself up on me. (Really great sign)

I find that she doesn't pull away when I touch her. (Also, really great sign)

Somehow, this seems to be going well. Her friend makes it a point to stop making out with my friend ever so briefly to tell me that I'm doing well and I need to keep doing what I am. She says "My friend really needs this"

I felt like a person that has never been able to boil water looking at a home-made pastry rising perfectly in my oven.

And then it all collapsed.

Because of you, Pink Shirt Guy.

You bought her a drink. She took it and walked away. You bought her another and she took it and tried to walk away. You followed her everywhere. It was like watching a cat chase a little ball. Everywhere she went, you were soon behind. She went to the restroom. You ran up to her when she came out. You tried to stand between her and everyone she went to talk to. You stalked her around that bar.

Of course my solution was simple. He wont stalk you if you are making out with me, but cute tall brunette was not ready for that. Maybe another 30 minutes of dancing and laughing and singing and I could have been there. Oh I was so close. If not for you. Pink Shirt Guy.

She finally just wanted to leave to get away from you and your douchie pink shirt. My drunk brother kept yelling "He's wearing a pink shirt", and I knew. I knew it was done. My chances were gone. She was no longer laughing and dancing and having a wonderful night that could only be made better by hooking up with a Cali boy in her hotel room. No, now she just needs to get away from you, Pink Shirt Guy.

I walked her back to her hotel on my way to my car. The whole time knowing I would not be invited up. Because of you, Pink Shirt Guy. How I hate you.

So here is my Ode to Pink Shirt Guy.

Oh your mighty douche-ness. How you love yourself. You may call it salmon, but to all the real men in the room, it's pink. You scared her off, you scarred her for life. She will never love California as much as she could have, because of you. Pink Shirt Guy. I wanted to break your kneecaps with a ball-peen hammer. Wanted throw you into a tank with Horace the ass raping eight-dicked walrus. I wanted to see the inside of sweet thin brunettes hotel room while you cuddled with your bros in your dads garage. But you ruined it. You never had a chance, and you just ruined mine. So this one's for you. Pink Shirt Guy.

Please die in a heap of your own vomit covered douche-baggery. Please run into me in on top of a hill in the desert. Please throw the first punch. I promise, it will be your last. Your kneecaps were within kicking distances 5 times. I counted. Thin dancing brunette deserved a good night and I would have given it to her. I deserved for this to work once in my life, and she was willing to help me with that. And then came you. Pink Shirt Guy. Fucking Pink Shirt Guy. You will forever be hated and never considered a winner. Maybe if you only upped your GTL you would have seen that nobody likes you and the sweet young girl on vacation was better off without your advances. Go back to watching The Situation and masturbating to pictures of yourself in a bra and panties.