Irredeemable slime of humanity
My experience at the EUTCo social tonight became an exercise in fuming, uncontrollable rage. Allow me to explain:
After a delightful hour or two in a local bar (a very classy affair) speaking to all of the wonderful theater friends I've made over the last couple months, some of us adjourned to Arena, a local club. I'm not always one for clubbing, but I have had some worthwhile experiences in the past, and I accompanied my friends with a light heart.
We drank a little, we danced a little, and then it occurred.
A nice girl and her friend bumped into me on the dance floor, giggled, pointed flatteringly at my bowler hat, and proceeded to dance with me. This is not uncommon. One of the girls proceeded to take my bowler and put it on, continuing to dance in a casual manner. It is not uncommon for folks to wear my bowler for a little while on the dance floor, it very often gets passed around to people I don't even know, but it always makes it back to me in good time. This girl, however, moved away from me with her friend and disappeared into the crowd. Quickly I moved after her, anxious to get my hat back. I confronted her, asking what had happened to my hat, my beloved hat, the one I've had for five years and worn to nearly every important formal occasion of my life in that time. The one that distinguishes me as an individual. The one that I got during Godot, quite possibly the most reqarding theater experience of my life.
"It must have fallen off my head," she said, lying through her teeth. But she didn't have it.
And then I realized what they'd done-- she'd handed it to her friend, who'd made off with it in a different direction.
They had stolen my bowler hat.
I pressed back onto the dance floor, examining the space around people's feet in case she hadn't been lying. Nothing. I circled the crowded club twice, trying to find the girl and her elusive cohort. Nothing. Distraught, I retired to the lobby to ask for some assistance.
And then I saw it-- in the cloak room, with a tage on it.
"Who checked in that hat?" I asked the cloak room attendant, a dumpy looking girl about my age.
"A girl," she said, being ever-so-helpful.
"When?" I asked.
"About fifteen minutes ago," she said.
"That's my hat," I said, scrambling for a coherent argument. "She stole my hat and checked it in."
"I'm sorry," she said. "If you don't have the ticket there's nothing I can do."
The next two and a half hours were spent searching the dance floor, relating my tale to the bouncers, convincing my friends to testify on my behalf, and waiting, waiting for the spineless vermin who'd pilfered the only accessory in my wardrobe that I truly cherished. With each half hour that passed my rage grew, and I began to consider simply letting the girls check out my hat and then mugging them on the street, reclaiming my bowler and rearranging their ugly little faces in the process. I could afford to leave a couple unconscious bodies in a dumpster during my stay in the UK, I reckoned. I was an American, they'd just be glad I hadn't shot anyone.
At about 2:00am, as the club began to clear out, one of the bouncers handed me my hat. My misty eyes must have revealed my boundless gratitude, because he said "girl tried to check it out, we told her 'bout your complaint and she just walked away without it." She hadn't even the guts to try and back up her thievery.
As I trudged back to campus, weary and sad but relieved, a street vendor stopped me. "Good evening," she said, giving me a smile. Her eyes flicked upward to examine my headgear. "You look fantastic," she said.
You're god damned right I do, I thought.
After a delightful hour or two in a local bar (a very classy affair) speaking to all of the wonderful theater friends I've made over the last couple months, some of us adjourned to Arena, a local club. I'm not always one for clubbing, but I have had some worthwhile experiences in the past, and I accompanied my friends with a light heart.
We drank a little, we danced a little, and then it occurred.
A nice girl and her friend bumped into me on the dance floor, giggled, pointed flatteringly at my bowler hat, and proceeded to dance with me. This is not uncommon. One of the girls proceeded to take my bowler and put it on, continuing to dance in a casual manner. It is not uncommon for folks to wear my bowler for a little while on the dance floor, it very often gets passed around to people I don't even know, but it always makes it back to me in good time. This girl, however, moved away from me with her friend and disappeared into the crowd. Quickly I moved after her, anxious to get my hat back. I confronted her, asking what had happened to my hat, my beloved hat, the one I've had for five years and worn to nearly every important formal occasion of my life in that time. The one that distinguishes me as an individual. The one that I got during Godot, quite possibly the most reqarding theater experience of my life.
"It must have fallen off my head," she said, lying through her teeth. But she didn't have it.
And then I realized what they'd done-- she'd handed it to her friend, who'd made off with it in a different direction.
They had stolen my bowler hat.
I pressed back onto the dance floor, examining the space around people's feet in case she hadn't been lying. Nothing. I circled the crowded club twice, trying to find the girl and her elusive cohort. Nothing. Distraught, I retired to the lobby to ask for some assistance.
And then I saw it-- in the cloak room, with a tage on it.
"Who checked in that hat?" I asked the cloak room attendant, a dumpy looking girl about my age.
"A girl," she said, being ever-so-helpful.
"When?" I asked.
"About fifteen minutes ago," she said.
"That's my hat," I said, scrambling for a coherent argument. "She stole my hat and checked it in."
"I'm sorry," she said. "If you don't have the ticket there's nothing I can do."
The next two and a half hours were spent searching the dance floor, relating my tale to the bouncers, convincing my friends to testify on my behalf, and waiting, waiting for the spineless vermin who'd pilfered the only accessory in my wardrobe that I truly cherished. With each half hour that passed my rage grew, and I began to consider simply letting the girls check out my hat and then mugging them on the street, reclaiming my bowler and rearranging their ugly little faces in the process. I could afford to leave a couple unconscious bodies in a dumpster during my stay in the UK, I reckoned. I was an American, they'd just be glad I hadn't shot anyone.
At about 2:00am, as the club began to clear out, one of the bouncers handed me my hat. My misty eyes must have revealed my boundless gratitude, because he said "girl tried to check it out, we told her 'bout your complaint and she just walked away without it." She hadn't even the guts to try and back up her thievery.
As I trudged back to campus, weary and sad but relieved, a street vendor stopped me. "Good evening," she said, giving me a smile. Her eyes flicked upward to examine my headgear. "You look fantastic," she said.
You're god damned right I do, I thought.
posted by Nate at 9:06 PM
3 Comments:
Nate, you fight for that hat. You fight for it with your life.
I hate assholes.
You have hat-stealing ass holes.
Sebastian has skate-boarding ass holes.
And I have a study hall filled with the worst little shits that have ever carwled out of their mothers' anuses. You know, ass-births.
I say we kill the lot of them.
Second.
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