Fine. This One Is About Cougars

Some of you got all pissy because I didn’t talk enough about cougars. And Bonnie said I was the only person that could make a cougar attack sound boring (I think she’s confused as to what type of cougar I’m talking about it), so here’s the explanation of the cougar story…

But first – and this is my real reason for writing this besides the fact that, fuck me, its 9:23 in the morning and I’m stuck in this goddamn cubicle AGAIN – does anyone else get the ads on Facebook to meet Christian singles? Facebook, I’m pretty sure, uses Google to generate their ads so they’re supposed to be tailored to you specifically. Obviously I’m listed on Facebook as single because 1. I am single and 2. I don’t care. So I get a lot of ads like “23 and Single?” or “Hey, Desperate Lonely Fat-Ass, here’s a picture of a chick you’ll never meet” or “Seek Help: Alcohol Addiction” and those are understandable given my age, physical appearance and vices. But my religious affiliation is not listed on The Facebook, so I have to just assume that either 1. Mark Zuckerberg is stalking me or the less likely 2. Facebook is taking a shot in the dark since 90%+ of Americans consider themselves Christian.

Anyways, like most of my generation I consciously ignore the ads and let them subconsciously mold every manner of my existence until I am the perfect consumer. And I’d be happy continuing to ignore them until she appeared…

"Boyfriend Wanted"? Sign me up, coach.

Let’s ignore the fact that she’s probably a Bible-thumping Jesus-freak, and also ignore the fact that there’s something vaguely hypocritical about a good Christian girl showing more cleavage than a Dolly Parton tribute and focus on someone finding out who in the blue Buddhist hell this girl is, tout fucking suite. Long story short, the things I would do to this girl on top of a stack of Bibles would make Sodom and Gomorrah look like Vatican City. Go, my minions. Search through the Intertubes and find me my future ex-wife.

Oh yeah, cougars.

So I went out to dinner with some people from work and spilled beer on my pants, which caused my co-workers to laugh until the point of guilt wherein they bought me a Jack and Coke. Now I don’t usually drink Jack and Coke, but I also don’t usually sit in a puddle of Miller Lite either so when in Rome… I get back to the hotel and change into some clean clothes and head to the hotel bar and have a few drinks with some other people from work. Our project is so large at this point, you can’t go anywhere in CT without running into someone from the team. Anyway, so there’s always a motley crue of barflies of a generally older variety there but on this specific night the resident cougar (Betty) was being outclassed in Cougarocity by the upstart rookie (Tammy). Tammy had a gaggle of balding dudes in sports coats hanging around and her, leading them on. But what was really weird was that she’d keep looking back and staring at me*. So I point it out to my buddy Dave and wouldn’t you know it, Tammy comes waltzing (see: stumbling) over to talk to us. A few drinks and a lot of personal space invasion later, last call at the hotel bar has come and gone. But last call at the Marriott is at midnight, so no one is quite ready to call it a night.

How or why we decided to go to the other bar is irrelevant (probably because it was my idea), but we get in the Malibu and drive over there with Tammy in the backseat. Dave told her she should sit back and buckle in, but if she did that she couldn’t be nibbling on my ear. She should’ve listened to Dave’s advice because I took a hard left and sent her flying across the backseat in a moment that will live in hilarity to quote FDR. We get to the other bar and like all drunk older women, she transforms into a petulant five year old: “I wanna play darts.” Good idea. Because really what I want to do right now is arm you with sharp metal projectiles; what am I retarded? Well yes, I’m retarded. So we played a round of darts which became increasingly difficult for Dave as he was being molested while trying to throw.

So I won the darts game – naturally – and we ended up at the bar and who shows up but Betty with the hotel bar staff in tow. And who gets the seat between the two cougars? Yep… Captain Vin. I forget how their little argument got started but I just remember being caught in the middle of a leopard print and silicon sandwich praying to the God of Christian Singles to get the hell out of there. Eventually it subsided with Tammy focusing her attention back on Dave and Betty (and the glock she keeps in her purse) between me and the cute Eastern European girl that works the Marriott bar. So I look over toward Dave for the cue to leave and Tammy catches my “let’s get the fuck out of this Tim Burton-level-of-fucked-up nightmare” look and hiccups her way through some snide mumbling about me wanting to leave or being jealous or something. To which I respond in my best Clark Gable: “Frankly, my dear, I couldn’t give a fuck.”

So she tried to turn her attention back to Dave but he was too busy laughing his ass off to really care, and I turned my attention back to the bartender who looked like Caity the Red Bull Girl with the same smile that made me fall for the original Caity. Connecticut Caity’s name is Sam, and she might be only the chick in the whole state that is tolerable for more than five minutes. Of course, I didn’t get to test that theory because last call there was at 1am. So I bid adieu to the Red Bull and Jager Girl, put the cougar in the cage and drove back to the hotel. Dave managed to escape with his life and only a few claw scratches and I passed out in the handicap room that they gave me this week because they lost my Platinum status number.

Now let’s never speak of this again.

Cougar bait,
{VM}

*To be fair she was probably so drunk she was probably like “Hey, why are those triplets all dressed the same? Oh, the middle one is kinda cute.”