A lot of things annoy me. The French. Faggy English people. Black people (I'm sorry, African-Americans) with blinged out Escalades and teeth). I mean, what can I say? I'm easily annoyed. Maybe I'm too sensitive. Or close-minded. Or something. Maybe I'm starting to turn into a curmudgeony old man. Next thing you know, I'll be walking with a cane and sitting in my own filth after going to the bathroom in adult diapers, keeping my teeth in a glass next to the bed while I sleep my way to inevitable death.
But, hopefully, that's not the case. I like to think that I just like my life to have a set order. A meaning that I don't like others--outsiders--to infringe upon. Take for instance my experience the other night.
I had once again traveled to the land of my childhood--Tyler. Now I'm sure you're wondering how I ended up there a week after I'd last graced that bastion of incomprehensible accents, but I have good reason--guilt. That's right, for once the Rifleman felt a pang of guilt. You see, the last time I went to Tyler to visit the Minotaur and his wife, the movie star and the rest, I'd elected to go on a Saturday after I'd promised to be there on Friday--I'd decided, based on some weird logic, that I'd be better off drinking all day on said Friday rather than spending time with my brother and his wife and my own mother, especially since it was Easter Weekend--traditionally, at least with my family, a time of togetherness. But I have my excuses--I spent said Friday drinking with 'Shank, and he's like family, only not, so if I were, say, Riflegirl, I could seduce him without being a fag.
Saturday night, I met Holly, Courtney and Holly's friend Amanda at the local Irish Embassy--Bennigan's, for some drinks and whatnot. Mostly drinks, as I'm not sure "whatnot" is in this situation. Conversation, maybe? If so, there was plenty of that. We'd been there for a bit over an hour, downing cheap beer and whatnot. Dammit--there's that word again.
Anyhow, we're sitting at a table in the bar area--the four of us crowded around into a tightly-knit cadre, when Holly receives a text message. A text message apparently forewarning her of impending doom. Or, at least, impending annoyance. She tells us that these particular people--a couple that live down the way from her boyfriend--have been mysteriously impressing themselves upon their lives (though if you ask me, maybe they should've never shared their phone numbers if they didn't want some intrusion. But I'll forgive them--they certainly had no idea what they were getting into) and said couple's arrival at the Irish Embassy was impending. I thanked her for forewarning me of their annoying habits of insinuating1
themselves into situations and girded myself.
They arrived. The guy was tall and skinny, quiet and, frankly, seeming like a somewhat ineffective individual. The girl, on the other hand, was short and mouthy--the type of woman my mother and her cackling friends might call a "dumpy blonde". And, to be honest, she did seem "dumpy", though I'm not really 100% sure what that means. Chubby, with an unflattering blouse that was about two sizes too small, too-easily highlighting the cavern of her navel and her apparently perpetually-erect nipples. Angular, rat-like features, softened by too many Twinkies and late-night Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Dirty blonde hair, skanky, just like its owner.
At first, they hovered near the table, chatting as if they were old friends on their way to their own table. Actually, this is not entirely true, as the only one doing any chatting was the girl. They guy just stood to himself, unenaging and uninteresting. Whether this was just aloofness or an air of superiority or social ineptitude, I can't say. Personally, between you and me, I think he was just a tool. Their hovering grew more ominous as Erica, the old woman waitress, approached and took their drink order. As she returned with their drinks, they commandeered table space to set them upon. This was starting to look bad. Somehow, after a few more minutes of chatting, they made chair materialize out of nowhere and suddenly they were sitting at our already-cramped table, never showing any outward sign that they knew they were uninvited. Our tightly-knit group, full of intelligent and witty conversation--had been imposed upon by people who most-certainly carry Lone Star Cards
. A flurry of text messages denouncing these outsiders bounced between our original group. Personally, I think that if I were somewhere and everyone else were text-messaging each other then laughing out loud instead of just coming out and saying it, I'd assume that they were talking about me and would leave. But these people were either incredibly determined to cast a pall over our evening or incredible oblivious. Holly and I ventured into talking about them out loud, discoursing on uninvited guests sitting at your table in restaurants like Bennigan's, but it was to no avail. These people weren't getting it. They stayed. And we had no choice but to pretend it didn't matter.
But it did matter. What was supposed to be a night out of fun drinking for us was made not-quite-as-fun by weirdos. Social parasites, if you will. People who have no lives of their own, therefore have to use others for vicarious good times. And Holly says these people are like this all the time. I have to wonder if they do this a lot--find another couple to sponge social lives off of for a while until they are told off or ignored or whatever. I've had a few friends like this in the past--they are always just there, not really fun to hang out with or interesting to talk to, but they always just show up, inviting themselves over, drinking all of your Coke and eating all of your pretzels. Thankfully, I've found, if you just take a few easy steps--don't open the door, don't answer your phone, get a restraining order, murder them then dump their bodies at construction sites--they eventually just go away. Just like psycho ex-girlfriends.1Contrary to some people's belief, a valid use of the word insinuate See this entry in the Wiktionary.