[WARNING: the below, for the sake of timeliness, is all illustrated through recycled photographs from facebook. and in one, there’s a cameo by a pig that’s been barbecued. You can see the pig’s face. if that kinda stuff makes you uncomfortable, don’t read further… but if you wanna hear a funny story, get someone to narrate it. Also, I talk about weeping mosquito bites. No holds will be barred, here, folks. You’ve been warned of a possible grossout factor.]

Good evening ladies and gents! I’ve got a little bit before I meet my beautiful cousin, Devon, for a little date at one of my favorite spots, Mellow Mushroom.

While I have a hot second or two, I decided to share a lovely story with y’all. It’s a tale of unrequited love, of sweaty passion (well, of sweaty something), and a tale of an itch that shouldn’t’ve been scratched.

If I haven’t lost you yet, come along with me on this journey. A veritable trip down memory lane (if memory lane were 3 days long).

As I mentioned, Saturday was a glorious day of tailgating, eating everything grilled/imaginable, and fun with friends. It was also, strangely, a day of accidental four hour naps that result in a 10:30 pm wakeup and a very confused Jordan.

I don’t get out on the town in Chapel Hill all too often, though, so I didn’t want the rest of the night to go to waste. Oh, and I was hungry (go figure?)

I called my old roomie/fraternity sister/lifelong friend, Linnea, to see if she wanted to escort me to Franklin Street for a bite and a sip (namely, pizza and a beer).  Ever the kindly lady, she promptly hurried over to satiate my hunger and thirst (primarily for sustenance, secondarily for human companionship.)

We scampered over to Artichoke & Basil and I couldn’t help but notice all the smiling faces on Franklin Street. It might have had something to do with the three day weekend, or the fact that it was a Saturday night, or the fact that we’d given a whooping to JMU earlier in the evening, but whatever it was, folks were getting rowdy. That’s okay, I had my eyes on the prize: pepperoni pizza with spinach. MMmmm.

After getting quite possibly the best parking space I’ve ever had the pleasure of parking in on a weekend on Franklin Street (seriously, people would give their left [arm/nut/breast/whatever is important to you] to get this spot), we casually strolled ourselves and my pizza slice to Bub O’Malley’s, a nearby watering hole on Rosemary Street that I have, shockingly, never visited once in my 6+ years living in/around Chapel Hill.

As a sidenote that will soon become important, earlier in the day, I’d scratched a mosquito bite on my right calf and irritated it to the point of inflammation and hideous red color. Oh, and it was weeping nasty mosquito juice.

Yeah, I told you it could get gross.

Back to Bub O’Malley’s (affectionately known as “Bubs”). We waltzed in there (well, sort of. First we got carded, then we filled out some sort of form because Bubs is one of those spots that requires membership since they don’t serve food, then we talked to the guy who carded us about my pizza. then we waltzed in) without a care in the world and admired their rather impressive tap selection.  I was a happy lady, and a lady that wanted nothing more than a quality beer to match my SUPERB pizza.

One Aviator Trippel later, I was sitting pretty.

Here’s the thing that I quickly noticed about Bubs (and probably why I never ended up there): The clientele is, generally, older than most Chapel Hill bars. The music played on the jukebox was the kind of stuff that give hipsters giant indie boners, and if I had a nickel for every pageboy cap I saw there, I’d have $0.05. But that’s still more pageboy caps than I’d see in most of the bars I frequent, where the music is meant to get your booty shaking and your fists pumping.

I digress.

The age was really the main difference. And, on a game weekend, UNC is flooded with many more older folks than regular. I’m not talking older like… well, like me (I’m 24, and graduated in 2009.) I’m talking old enough to be parents of students themselves. Yet they still seem to think that a college town is the number one spot to pick up the ladies.

Linnea and I were just kicked back, enjoying the ambient noise of conversations and music I don’t like, when we heard a commotion at the door.  I paused from my pizza long enough to see two of these fellows mentioned before holding a similar looking dude, only this one was a little wider, a little drunker looking, and drenched in sweat. He had short curly, brillo-pad like hair, the kind that does that horrible head-clinging when you get sweaty. He didn’t NOT look like Milton from Office Space (minus the glasses and facial hair, with curly hair.)

He stumbled in and his friends placed him on a chair.  I thought that’d be the last of it.

Having itched my mosquito bite to the point of weeping, yet again, I was trying to prevent myself from feeling drips of mosquito juice down my leg. So I utilized one of the tiny bar towels to wipe it up. Never one to waste, I kept using the same one over and over again.

Back to curly haired Milton. He must’ve taken one look our way, and became determined to woo one of us, because shortly after being sat down, he stumbled over in our direction to make small-talk. Neither of us were interested, so I kindly suggested he scamper back to his friends and physically boxed him out with my shoulder. Milton, persistent son of a gun that he was, took this as flirting. And then he did something so shocking that I was speechless.

He snagged my mosquito-juice napkin.

Was he trying to wipe something up? Was he needing to blow his nose? Or, most likely, did he feel like this was an appropriate method of flirting much like a 1st grade boy would steal your pencil case because “he liked ya”?

Whatever it was, that was the point of no return.

I quietly turned to Linnea and explained what he was clutching to his heart, in a Gollem-type of “precious” grip, and we both bust out laughing, hoping that was the end of it.

It was not, though, as we realized moments later when he popped his head between us to chime into our chit chat.

Ok, that’s enough, I was over this.

Instead of explaining to Milton, though, I just turned to him and, without hesitating, at a volume level one or two notches below a yell, started saying “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!”

I’m pretty sure this is the most effective way I’ve ever told a fellow “back off” at a bar and before I knew it, the bartender had told him to back off and I was free.

Linnea was, I’m sure, impressed at my skills.

And there you have it: How to NOT Get a Date with Me.

(also, I’m in love with my beau, so really, if you’re anyone other than him, you won’t get one either…. but this was definitely the worst attempt of all time.)

Hope you’re having a great night, it’s pizza time for me!