I Was Shot Down This Weekend And The Lack Of Closure Is Killing Me

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Nice Move

denied girl bar

Gifted with a tongue that could lick shine off a diamond, a liver more bottomless than mimos at your favorite brunch spot, and no regard for the state of my father’s checking account, I used to to be the Deadshot of approaching women at the bar. I was the man who never missed — a supervillain to some, an anti-hero to others. Three up, three down every time I took the mound. Sure, I haven’t taken every lady I’ve approached home — in fact, I’ve gone to the bar with a girl and left alone on more than one occasion — but my percentage was vintage Threezus from behind the arc.

Last Saturday, I stood at half-court, charging up another heat check when I approached a tall, thin blonde girl with high cheekbones and a $200 hair treatment, expecting to rustle her loins with a free drink and a classic pickup line I had just ripped off of Reddit five minutes prior.

I never expected to be shot down.

The setting presented an inherent challenge: she came with a girl friend who scowled with the force of 1,000 cunts. In addition to her resting-bitch-face companion, they both strutted in with some Malibu’s Most Wanted-looking fella, who should have been a finalist for the “most punchable face in the Northeast” award. Not to be deterred, I threw back another shot of confidence, slid off my stool, and staggered over to the girls. I opened my mouth and literal dogshit poured out. Now, a decent human being would have at least listened to my entire opening line — my full 10-second sell.

Not these girls.

They shot me down.

They shot me down like Korean Airlines Flight 007, and there were no survivors.

Noting the stupid-ass tattoo on her wrist, I strung together a half-assed line about the significance of having an infinity sign that looked more like a fucking fish.

“I noticed the tattoo on your *hic* wrist. Do you — do you just want fish forever? I mean I get it. I like fish. But, what’s the signif… ”

The friend cut me off.

“There’s no significance. She’s not interested.”

I was shook. The unthinkable was taking place: I was getting shot down. I panned over to the bitch friend.

“Huh? Excuse me, was I talkin’ to you? No, no I wasn’t. Mind your own damn business and go back to doing whatever the fuck you do when you’re not getting dicked harder than Jim Harbaugh on a fourth down call.”

We had a few more words and, after a shameless overt display of sore loser-dom on my part, I hung my head and trudged back to my slice of the bar, defeated, trying to make sense of my abject failure.

My first thought: they had to be lesbians.

It’s plausible. No half-attractive straight girl is that bitter and angry. The blonde — the recipient of my admiration — was probably the second girl’s trophy girlfriend, and the friend didn’t appreciate me stepping on her toes, or worse: possibly swinging her partner’s preference back to the male side.

I tried unpacking it further. “Maybe she’s having a really bad day. I mean, Hillary just lost and her girlfriend’s an insufferable bitch. I must have caught her on a bad night.” There’s also a possibility I looked like her ex who was a GQ model before he stole her ID and most of her lingerie, started taking hormones, and got his friends to start calling him Sally. Maybe that’s why she switched teams in the first place.

Just then, a ludicrous thought crept into my head: maybe there’s no foul play and she just wasn’t into me. I let that reason kick around my psyche for a nanosecond before giving it a dramatic hand flip and a long, dismissive “nahhhh.”

Now, it’s been two days and I still can’t make sense of it. I have yet to bury the film and move on. My faith in my own abilities hasn’t been this low since I was benched for a slow 7-year-old in a 12-and-under baseball league. And not Tom-Brady-at-the-combine slow. I’m talking power-ranks-glue-based-on-flavor slow.

But, like all other great shooters, I have to honor the 48 hour rule. By tomorrow, it’ll be time to put this stumble in the rearview mirror and start preparing for next Saturday. Maybe I’ll see my blonde friend again and take another shot at taking her home.

Just kidding, fuck her and her miserable friend.

Image via Shutterstock

Kramer is a future Bachelorette contestant with an affinity for brown girls, who hails from the more successful side of the keystone state. He enjoys long crawls to the liquor cabinet and has only been punched in the face once. Send lovelies to kraysmash@gmail.com

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