Thread by @HoarseWisperer

So I’m at the bar and they offer me bread but I’m not eating and it’s kinda unsaid that you get the bread if you’re eating so I said no and then they asked again and I said no because I’m a gentleman and shit but now the people next to me got bread and I swear, I’m gonna take it.

And now they’re indifferent to the bread.

Why did you get the bread then? It doesn’t grow on a g-damn bread tree. People like you disgust me. I’m kidding. You’re fine. Your bread antics are troubling though. Deeply troubling. Gimme your damn bread.

Oh, and now they ordered boneless wings - which are not a thing.

Even flightless birds like the blue-footed booby indigenous to the Galápagos Islands, have bones in their wings. That’s, like, Bird 101.

You people ordered chicken tenders.

The bread was a warning sign.

Oh, okay, I see the game now.

Steve waited until Carol had eaten one boneless chicken wing* and is now gonna eat the whole rest of the basket himself while trying to be all coy about that.

(*not actually a thing. They’re chicken fingers.)

I have no idea if their names are Steve and Carol but he is distinctly Stevian and she is remarkably Carolesque.

Steve’s all up on the bread now.

IT WAS WARM WHEN THEY SERVED IT, STEVE. WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?!?

Carol is hammering the free peanuts.

Okay, we like Carol now. She’s too good for Steve.

Steve is still hunched over his now cold basket of boneless wings* as if he was a killdeer defending a nest of eggs.

*Boneless wings are still not a thing

Fun-fact: to ward off predators, the killdeer pretends to have a broken wing.

It then leads the predator further and further away from its nest and just flies back when safe.

Steve lacks that kind of ingenuity. Steve is no killdeer.

Just to keep you up to date on the state of play here, Carol has had approximately half of a 20 ounce Blue Moon and is loosening up.

Steve finished one Blue Moon and is halfway through a second.

So, the Blue Moon ounce scoreboard thus far:

Carol: 10 ounces
Steve: 30 ounces

Carol is relating a fairly meandering tale of some work exasperation. Steve, to his credit, appears to be employing relatively earnest active listening while still hording the last of the boneless chicken wings*.

*still not a thing. Chicken nuggets. Those are chicken nuggets.

Math time:

If a train leaves Kansas City going 60 mph with Steve in the dining car eating boneless wings* and another train leaves New York going 20 mph with Carol in the dining car eating peanuts, who will be drunker by Indianapolis?

That was a trick question.

Carol will be drunker because peanuts are not terribly absorbent.

I base this in part on the fact that I have eaten at least as many peanuts as Carol and we’d definitely be singing a duet of Paradise by the Dashboard Light soon were it not for Steve.

I don’t like what I’m seeing.

Steve’s basket of boneless wings* is nearly empty (as is his second Blue Moon) and he is very much taking on the countenance of a man more than happy to pay the check and go home.

Premature echeckulation.

Carol isn’t there yet, Steve. Damn you.

Yup. Steve just hoisted his mug of Blue Moon in the way a man does when they wish to signal “My work here is done.”

He is such a g-damned Steve. No offense to innocent Steves, of course.

Carol, to her credit, wholly ignored the mug signal. LOL, Carol doesn’t play.

Steve, flummoxed by his Viking mug signal going wholly unhonored, could come up with no Plan B other than a repitition of the ceremonial “...and now we are done.” mug hoist.

Just as he went for the mug though, Carol turned full attn to the peanuts.

Wow. Pro skills right there.

You know when Steve and Carol will be leaving?

Whenever the hell Carol damn well pleases. That’s when.

Carol is a gamer. A pro’s pro.

Oh my lordt.

Sweet fancy Moses, as god is my witness, Carol just hoisted up her mug while talking, took a swig without finishing it, and set it back down.

That is a checkmate. A bold and emphatic “We ain’t done til I AM DONE, Steven.”

Steve just rolled over and showed his belly as defeated young males with dreams of ruling the pride are wont to do. He acquiesced. Admitted defeat.

Carol wanted another beer.

Carol is getting another beer.

I would absolutely vote for Carol for local office.

Steve has turned absolutely docile. Carol could put a saddle on him and ride him to their sensible sport-utility vehicle.

I kid you not, Carol’s power moves of ignoring Steve’s signals coupled with her order of another beer just pinned him to the mat.

Bold. And beautiful.

Steve would absolutely hold Carol’s purse if she wanted to go dance with her friends right now.

In fact, Steve would stand with arms outstretched like a coat rack so Carol’s friends could hang their jackets.

But it’s summer and it’s just the two of them. Lucky for Steve.

Okay, now it’s getting good.

Steve, having been outflanked by Carol on the ordering of an additional beer, tried to accelerate the eve to a close by hastily paying the check.

Made quite the to-do of counting out the money, fanning out the bills and laying down a tip.

The subtext was unmistakeable: “Our transaction here is complete.”

Silly Steve. Silly, silly Steve.

Carol has approximately 18 of her 20 additional ounces of Blue Moon left.

Since Steve requested and paid the check, she has consumed 0.000 ounces.

Not a sip.

Okay, let me paint the tableau for you. Give you a mental Norman Rockwell to accompany the doings.

Big bar. Working left to right it’s me, Steve and then Carol. Steve has the sad basket of two orphaned boneless wings* in front of him.

Carol and I each have buckets of peanuts.

Carol and I are each intermittently eating peanuts in the way officialized by the Geneva Convention and several international treaties:

1) Take whole peanut from bucket
2) Crack open over the discard bucket
3) Drop shells. Eat peanuts.

Carol is boxing Steve out. No peanuts.

Occasionally, Steve sheepishly sneaks a peanut from the bucket very much in front of Carol but then has no choice but to crack it open away from the discard bucket and then angle for a route to dispose of the shells.

Carol owns the paint. She’s a peanut Charles Barkley.

Oh man.

Steve just tried to nudge his basket of cold, orphaned boneless wings* in front of Carol as if to say “Our time here is done. Let them clear our places.”

Carol shoved it back in front of him and took a languid swig of her Blue Moon.

CAROL IS A BALLER.

Have you seen that video of the puppies barking at the cat while the cat is wholly indifferent to their drama?

It has been going around the last week.

The puppies are all Steves. Carol is the cat.

This is a clinic. A rout. A tour de force.

Carol exudes a preternatural calm. She disregards Steve’s peacocking as if it were of no particular import.

They will stay until she is done.

Even the bartenders know to follow Carol’s cues. The tip remains uncollected.

And with that, Carol got up... and then Steve got up... and they walked out... Carol in front of Steve until Carol slowed to walk out together.

I’m Team Carol. I’d buy that t-shirt.

Carol’s a pro jock. A looper. She’s got that going for her. Which is nice.