Two young girls walk up to the bar...
No this isn’t a joke about nuns or crocodiles; talking dogs or bears who do un-comely things with bowel movements in densely wooded areas.
I've taken a job to pay the bills as I work on my various projects and I had just started my night shift and had taken over a packed bar when a delegation of drunken womanhood broke free from the main body of the local vets’ Christmas party and headed, very unsteadily, towards the bar.
By the determined way that they bobbed, weaved; zigged and zaged and bravely ran the gauntlet of groping hairy farmers hands across the packed room, it was obvious they were now regretting the stupidly high shoes they were wearing and the dresses that ended two point five inches below the dental floss that passed for their knickers.
But eventually they arrived at the bar and made a half hearted attempt at pulling their dresses down. Sadly they were woefully unaware of Newton’s law of the little black number; that states quite clearly: what comes down must also follow, ie; when they pulled the dress down at the bottom, the top half followed suit and only narrowly prevented their inadequately secured breasts from making a surprise guest appearance.
The girl with the little black numbers friend piped up and slurred her concerns as to the fact that she was ‘shinning’. Her little blond compadre turned--- a little too quickly as it would turn out--- to find out what she had meant and sank ignominiously, and wide eyed with shock into a pack of rugby boys, who, at that very moment had been discussing their respective Christmas lists; chief desire of which was for the sudden arrival of something blond, comely, loose of morals and with inebriated senses, directly onto their laps, when seemingly out of nowhere the little blond appeared in their midst with her legs akimbo and still grasping her depleted glass of Jägermeister and port slammer.
There was a brief moment of calm while the pub held its collective breath. The pack stared blankly at her as she tried to get her legs to stop waving around in such a come-hither-to-fashion, then the rugby boys erupted into a shark feeding frenzy. Drinks flew everywhere as they closed in on the helpless little blond like a collapsing scrum. It took three night porters, two barmen, fifteen waiters and a referee to break it up; four of the boys were sent immediately to the sin bin and at least two were deemed to have been caught offside.
Once we had the girl safely upright, and her hair facing vaguely in the right direction, we began the task of reassembling her eye lashes. The right one had slipped furthest away and gave the impression that she was sporting a nifty goatee, while the second was reposing under her nose, looking like one half of a handle bar moustache.
Her friend, who was still banging on about how unfair it was, and what a martyr she had become to her ‘shiny’ predicament (we never did get to the bottom of that little conundrum), hadn’t noticed her friends disappearing/reappearing act, while the blond, after our sixty second makeover, slipped effortlessly back into her friends drunken conversation as though nothing had happened.
They then continued to order their own body weight in Sambuca and Malibu before returned into the bosom of the happy throng of hammered vets. But moments before they re docked with their fellow party goers, the little blonde’s heels finally gave up the ghost and parted company with the main body of the shoe and she went down like a sapling in a storm.
Once again the Rugby boys headed towards her like heat seeking hormone missiles, howling at the blood moon as they did so. But luckily one or two of the vets saw their approach and with the deft movements, worthy of a police marksman, they darted most of the front row and were holding back the wingers and props with fully charged cattle prods.
Apparently, when questioned by a very impressed Policewoman who was attending the scene later, the vet said:
“We never leave home without a cattle prod or a tranquillizer gun, as you never know when it will be needed”
And as the rugby boys were led dazedly away to the JPR Williams home for the slightly bewildered, I thought about my youngest daughter as she totters around town on sixteen foot heels, glowing a little too much for her own good; tanked up and turning her blood from a life giving liquid into 400% proof alcohol, I closed my eyes and whispered through barley parted lips:
“Please Santa, let there always be a vet and his cattle prod near my little girl this Christmas”