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The Bitchy One

Guitarboy

February 08, 2009

Guitarboy played lead guitar for several terrible bands in the Seattle area in the late 80's and nineties. Bands with crap names, and even less discernible talent. Probably the only thing keeping him sane was his sarcasm, and snarky sense of humor. While no longer playing roller rinks, and Home Depot openings, he's kept busy with a day job, and writing about some of the funnier experiences in his life.

It all started at a house party thrown by our friend Gina. My roommate Dave and I noticed three girls talking in the kitchen, so we went to talk to them. I forget their names now, but we simply referred to them as “the redhead with the nice cans,” the “blonde tramp with the beak,” and “the bitchy one,” who got annoyed with us when we both went straight to the redhead like a bug to a light. The more we drank, and chatted with the girls, the pissier “The Bitchy One” became. After a few more drinks, I was nodding off in a deck chair, and woke to find Dave and the bitchy one making out in a chair about 4 feet away.

Sure enough, about a week later I came home from work to find Dave and the bitchy one, whose actual name was Denise sitting on the couch watching TV. I decided to give her a second chance. I needn’t have. The next words to come out of her mouth were her telltale-annoying bitch Mantra.

“Most guys are intimidated by me, because I’m Honest.” She spews. She then looks at Dave for validation. Dave rolls his eyes, she elbows him in the ribs, and she turns to glare at me. I give her a completely benign look, and say, “Yeah, I’m sure it’s just because you’re honest.”

“What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?” She accuses.

I look at Dave, to make sure he’s ok with me provoking his date. He just smiles, indicating I should continue.

“I mean, it couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that you’re abrasive, sort of clueless, and, well…unattractive could it?” I inquire.

Denise is literally struck dumb for several seconds, but she responds quickly. By launching off the couch to kick me. I catch the foot, and drag her several feet as she plops on her ass. She goes into Psycho bitch mode. Calling me a fucker, and a son of a bitch.

I decide to needle her a little more by saying, “Well, I must be intimidated by your Honesty,” which caused Dave to bust up laughing, and infuriating her even more.

Dave ended up seeing Denise a few more times after that, as she was too much of a bitch for even HIM to tolerate for long. He confided that he was ready to dump her, so I asked if we could try an experiment before he kicked her to the curb to see just how much shit she would put up with before she dumped HIM. He was game of course, so I started plotting. The first thing I came up with was simply called the Redirect. Every time she would come over for a particular reason, we would see how far we could sidetrack her from her objective.

She showed up the next night to have dinner, and watch a movie. She had just arrived, and had not yet sat down when Dave and I hop up and announce loudly that we need to go grocery shopping, and she’s driving. She was clearly annoyed but hid it remarkably well.

When we arrived at the supermarket, Dave and I went into the second part of our plan. As she began pushing the shopping cart, Dave and I ran ahead and began picking the items we wanted, and placing them in the middle of the isle for her to place in the cart. Then we would wait until she was an isle over, and we would begin tossing things over, trying to land them in the cart, like Paper towels, and dish sponges. We laughed when she’d start yelling at us. I moved ahead a little bit, and after Dave made sure she was out of the flight path, I tossed a few soup cans over, just to scare the shit out of her. As soon as the first can hit with an impressive WHAP, she began yelling for us to knock it off.

When she caught up to us several isles later, we were tossing a roll of paper towels back and forth like a football.

“What kept you?” I asked.

The look on her face sent me into another fit of laughter. We paid for the groceries, and headed home. I figured that would do it, but as pissed as she was, she was not deterred.

A few nights later, when she came over to pick up Dave to go to a movie, I pulled another ploy that we called the safe bet. A few days prior we had videotaped a football game on TV and when she showed up, we appeared very INTO the game, and drinking beer with a few other guys, who we had brought in on the gag.

“I’ll bet Kansas City misses the field goal,” I announce belligerently.

“I’ll bet’cha $10 they make it!” says one of the other guys, Aaron, on cue.

“You’re ON!” I say with a smirk.

I act crushed as the ball sails easily through the uprights, as Denise smiles at my demise.

“Double or Nothing he makes it to at LEAST the 40 yard line on the return!” I challenge brazenly.

“You got it fool!” Aaron accepts with a smile. I glance at Denise out of the corner of my eye and she’s HOOKED.

“Run, you stupid FUCKER!!” I scream at the TV.

Of course the ball never made it past the fifteen-yard line, and she was damn near orgasmic at the idea of me losing more money.

I nudge Aaron; it was time to take it up a notch.

“Fifty bucks that by the end of this quarter, the Jets are ahead by ten points!” I offer.

“Fifty bucks? Are you CRAZY? There is NO WAY the Jets are going to catch up!!” he says.

“I’ll bet you asshole,” Denise pipes up.

“You’re ON!” as I reach over to shake her hand, sealing the deal.

Three plays later the Jets intercepted for a touchdown, as we knew they would, and Denise began to get nervous. She became almost frantic, as Kansas City was unable to move the ball downfield.

I became more and more obnoxious at their lack of progress. Once the Jets got possession, they mercilessly moved the ball down field. Denise sat there in morbid silence, as she began to try and figure out a way to not have to pay me fifty bucks.

“We weren’t standing when we shook hands, it doesn’t count!” she says.

“Fuck you, it counts and you know it.” I say simply.

“It wasn’t a fair bet,” she counters, clearly grasping at straws.

“Bullshit!! I didn’t ask you to bet, you piped up and TOOK the bet you loudmouthed HAG!” I taunt her, sneering.

She is getting really upset now, as the Jets get into field goal range.

She lurches off the couch. “I have to leave” she says.

“You’re not going anywhere until this bet is settled, you cheating bitch!” I accuse.

She’s near crying, but her aggressive personality won’t let her back down. The whole room is staring at her.

Dave says simply “I think you should pay your debts when you lose.”

She goes BALLISTIC; in a beautiful Springer-esque meltdown she turns on Dave.
“You Son of a Bitch!, I can’t believe you’re taking that FUCKERS side over mine!!” She screams. There is dead silence as she starts to run out of steam, when I reply simply “Bitches come and go, but Buds are forever.”

That succeeds in ratcheting her anger level back up to Chernobyl volatility.

She starts flailing kicks, and windmilling arms from about 5 feet away, and comes after me. Aaron, and Pat scatter off the couch to avoid the assault. I roll to the side as she kicks the spot I just vacated, and the entire room explodes in laughter.

She just freezes in utter humiliation and in a dramatic display I reach for the remote, and PAUSE the game.

When she realizes that its recorded, she turns and silently walks out the door…and out of our lives.

There are a few minutes of silence and Pat looks at me with a serious expression and says, “I hope you never get fuckin’ pissed at ME, man.”

Aaron, and Dave echo his sentiments, suggesting that maybe I did take it a bit far on that one. Maybe I did, but then again, who’s to say?