Be careful who you're talking to
A beer ad triggers some heavy exchanges
BY sigcino moyo
I'm
in the zone, hanging with a few other cats, giddy off free-flowing tomfoolery
stemming from a TV game score tilted heavily in our want.
All is groovin' in this little bubble until said game goes stink.
Quicker than the average dude can say the wrong thing to the right babe – thus
rendering himself un-laid when he's already otherwise passed muster – this
whips the pack of jovially jamming jive-asses into a blathering band of
cry-babies.
Dense disenchantment,
manifest in palpable silence, is mercifully diffused by a beer commercial that
then becomes the target of all the pent-up sports rage. Good thing we're not
live at a kids' hockey game.
The spot in question
features some delusional chump on the make who sputters, "She's got hungry
eyes and I'm the all-you-can-eat buffet" while ogling a hottie from big-talk-no-walk distance at a party.
Cut to the chase and, of
course, Chumpy is talking this particular brand of
shit to the fantasy gal's "significant other" – as can be seen from
the cozy photos of the couple conspicuously plastered on the fridge for anyone
with eyes to see.
At worst, this thing is a
bit of a fledgling take on the old "Hey, man, that's my sister!"
response to a "Look at the tits on her!" observation.
We've all seen this ad
umpteen times before, perhaps even tonight, with nary a notice, but in this
malevolent mood the trite huckstering is downright incendiary.
"Asshole
beer companies.
Shit doesn't go down like that, for fuck sake!" is easily one of the more
eloquent comments amidst the cacophonous vitriol spewed en masse in the
aftermath.
Skank scores have been known to spike
my blood pressure and blur my objectivity over the years, but I can't bite on
this vent.
While just as sickened as
the next man over the unfolding game, I'm also highly amused by the group rant.
And more to the point, I beg to differ with the sentiments of the suddenly
rabid gang.
Not to suggest that beer
ads generally bear any semblance to reality, but I mention that even off the
top of my head I can recall being a direct party to many a faux pas akin to
what we've just seen.
Before I get to breaking
it down, Circuits calls me on it. "Yeah, right.
One drop, then, gimme just one," he spits with
volumes more defiance than the moment warrants.
It's never nice when one
of the boys puts you out for doubt, but I just smirk while eyeballing the good
sir until his little pea brain tweaks to an instance that's likely to be first
on my lips.
He starts a frantic
sawing motion in proximity to his own throat, signalling
his plea to kill this conversation where it lies. But, alas, clearly I've been
provoked.
So I put us all back in
mind of the notorious "High Speed" fiasco where he and Evan, another
hothead here tonight, severely pummelled each other
over a truly enchanting bartender – who had both male and female heads on a
swivel – at a night spot.
Circs' sudden and
incessant obsessing about "world-class DSL" (huh?) had everyone
figuring this was a night to leave him be with his personal demons. But Evan,
not able to let that nonsensical DSL jabber ride any longer, broke ranks and
demanded some clarification: "What the fuck are you on about?"
Circs pointed directly at
the bartender, who was barely out of earshot, and replied incredulously,
"Them Dick-Sucking Lips don't move you, son?"
Evan decked him with a
quick right. Wasn't pretty. Turns out Evan had been
seriously dating the chick on the down-low.
The boys managed to
literally and figuratively patch things up well enough over time, but it's
still a sore point. This revisiting of it assuages the sporting doldrums and
cures the selective collective amnesia on such matters, and we're soon busting
up again.
Like
about the time King, having discovered that I was familiar with a new business
contact of his, confided to me that it was impossible to concentrate in
meetings: "Every time I see that woman I just want to grab her and fuck
her right there."
It seemed that he was
gearing in to more graphic detail, so I felt obliged to hip him to the fact
that I was, at that time, otherwise known as the boyfriend of this personage of
his wanton desire.
King was understandably
mortified, and I was humbly conciliatory because I'd made a similar, if not
worse, blunder in the not too distant past after running into an almost
forgotten former running mate.
We'd defaulted to
pounding a quick one at the nearest hole, and instantly we were lobbing
"Do you remember (insert name of hot chick here)" volleys, with
insanely banal commentary following closely after each.
I started in about a
certain someone and my enduring longing to, with consent: "Tie her up,
tongue her down and fuck her with my dick."
"As opposed to my
dick?" he wondered aloud while fishing in his pocket.
He brandished a picture
from his wallet and smacked it on the table like a domino, then rocked me with,
"Married her three years ago, Tiger."
I flipped to backtrack mode, but he was quick to let me off the hook.
"Some guys would beat you down on the spot for that – but I can dig where
you're coming from," he laughed a little too easily for my comfort.
I prepared to deflect
blows that never came.
***
At home with a lady
friend a few weeks after game night, intentionally vegging on bad tube, that same blasted beer ad has her in a snit – "rather
insulting," she insists – because of its unrealistic bent. I'm not about
to take the heat for the beer weasels, so I don't bother telling her that she
unknowingly elicited a comparable response from another guest at a black-tie
fete we'd recently attended together.
She was striding into the
room when this dude nudged me, leaned close and offered, "Look at that.
Bet she's a wild one."
But in that circumstance there was no benefit in either boxing the boy or more gently letting loose with the truth that she was my exceedingly excellent gal. So I just cut him short with a narrowing of the eyes, a knowing grunt and a nod in lecherous agreement.
love&[email protected]
NOW
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