Bitch Pants

I yelled at some dudes in the bar the other night.

I was out with a few ladyfriends (there was also one dude there at the time) and we got to discussing, er, negative interaction. I brought up this blog post I had read recently about a woman who decided she would no longer put up with people’s shit – regardless of whether it was directed at her or a stranger, she would stand up to the a-holes. And she did.

On reading the post, I realized I’m kinda that girl. I have no problem donning my bitch pants when necessary.

Example: A few years ago, I was out swimming with Kate, Heather, and Stephanie. We were bobbing around near a sand bar when we spotted a couple of dudes in a boat headed our way. Le sigh. We were having a great time and did not want to be chatted up by some tourist bros. Sure enough, they trolled up next to us and attempted to make conversation. I don’t think I said anything; the other ladies gave short but polite answers but made no real attempt to keep the conversation going. Finally, when they asked our names I turned to them and said “I really don’t think that matters.”

A conversation killer to be sure. The bros eventually trolled away and our peace was returned.

Anyway, the above was just one shining sample from a series of bitchery bestowed upon others by yours truly. I think it’s probably the meanest one, though. All other instances involved people being actual douchebags, as opposed to just clueless dudes.

So this herd of middle aged guys were sitting at the bar on Friday night, after spending a fair amount of time getting their pool cues all up in our faces. It was early, so there weren’t a lot of people there yet. For whatever reason (alcohol, I assume), they were rowdy as hell and loud. We ignored them for awhile but I of course reached Point Bitch and yelled back.

SHUT. UP. Jeeesus!”

It worked well enough.

Apologies to Jesus, though.


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