A Postmortem
Well, it wasn't the night I would have chosen. But it could have been worse. The rundown:
5:00PM Yay! Yime to go. I roust Mike and George from their cubes, and we head to the Aston Martin. Fred calls shotgun. Some sort of pseudo-legal wrangling ensues based on myriad details of shotgun calling. After an excruciating interlude, a 20 sided die is rolled and the matter is resolved, with Fred retaining shotgun priviledges. I query the troops on proposed destinations. "Food" appears to be the unanimous choice, which I quickly veto. No alcohol buffers allowed. I use the word "troops" to denote my desire for total control over these nancy boys for the evening. When I say "Drink!", these bastards better say "How much?"
5:18PM First stop: Liquor Mart! The take: three Pabst 40s' and a fifth of Old Crow. As we speed away, Mike spills some PBR on the Aston Martin's baby sealskin seat covers. I scream at him "You bastard. I hope you realize that another baby seal will have to be killed to replace that cover. That's no different than if you had killed the seal yourself, Bilbo." While Mike is comfortable with slaughtering hordes of orcs, the seal thing shuts him up for a bit. I, on the other hand, happily whistle a jaunty tune.
5:34PM Second stop: Bar number one. We sit outside the bar for a bit, downing the PBR's. A word on the group dynamic. Mike is clearly the leader of this little twosome and seems to derive his powerful charisma from his overwhelming adherance to the geek sterotype. He's not just socially inept, he seems to believe that being an asshole is the key to acceptance in the D&D community. I hear him deride other's of his tribe for inferior knowledge of Bardic Lore, for example. As for a physical description, Overpowered reader The Raven is pretty much spot on when he writes: "(the leader) will be big, often over 200lbs, and have the sort of facial hair that should be removed." To that I'd like to add "with a guillotine".
George on the other hand, is a nice guy. The sort of inoffensive gump, to whom "nice" is applied, not because it's really descriptive, but because any other adjective is a little too colorful. This guy needs to get away from Mike and go do something. Become a rodeo clown or something. Get a life.
Conversation seems inhibited by my prohibition of work or RPG's as topics. I try to push the conversation to cool stuff like explosives and drugs, you know fun stuff, but these boys ain't having it. I console myself by inventing a drinking game that, without using any exotic die, involves me drinking and swearing as much as possible. It's damn fun.
8:02PM Third stop: Bar number two. By this time, the troops are sporting a fairly decent wobble factor. We've put away a few shots of the Old Crow on the way over and it's working. The dungeon twins are facinated by the sight of women with discernable waists. Now we've moved on to the "why don't women like me?" phase of the evening. Mike and George are in agreement that if only women could understand them, they'd be sure to have girlfriends. That's the only possible reason they don't have girlfriends. As gently as possible, and with the barest minimum of profanity, I inform them that the reason they don't have girlfriends is precisly because women understand them completely. This seems to sober them up.
Shit.
I try to cheer them up with a round of Wild Turkey shots, but that only cheers me up. Hmm. This could be a long night.
9:17PM Fourth stop: Bar number three. The twins are entranced by a delectable young woman up by the bar. It's kinda like Jarod the Subway guy would stare at a cheese covered ham after hitting a bong for the better part of a week. Now, it must be said that this is one yummy treat we're talking about. A veritiable bagatelle. Decked out in leather pants and a top that reveals a breast enhancement of such quality that local plastic surgeons refer to it as "The Pre-nup Disposer". I'm doing a bit of staring myself. But not like the RPG twins. My suggestion that Mike buy her a drink is treated with derision. Probably a wise choice on his part.
The twins are finally starting to loosen up. Perhaps the mescaline has done the trick. Maybe the Crow. Whatever it is, they're starting to have fun.
11:22PM Fifth stop: Bar number four. The twins are loaded. Nary a word can pass their lips without a giggle storm erupting. George is talking to a girl. I'm thinking that things are going pretty well, so I head to the Aston to finish off the rest of the Crow. Upon the my return, I realize that something has gone horribly wrong. A bouncer has Mike's hands tied up over his head, and George has a distinctly post-vomit look about him. It turns out that George has decided that rather than discretely slip away to the bathroom to throw up, as any Overpowered reader would do, that the better choice would be to throw up on the girl he was talking to, along with her former Golden Gloves winning boyfriend. While I cannot but admire the audacity of this manuever, George neglected to develop an exit strategy while he was in the pre-vomit phase of execution. A common mistake, and a painful one. Off we go.
Addendum: Our night on the town was the hot topic of conversation at the day job. Apparently this was the best night the twins have had. Ever. They want to go out next weekend. No fucking way. I'm sorry, but that wasn't even a good night for a Tuesday. My helping days are done. From now on, it's all about me.
8:38:13 PM 
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