It has come to my attention that one of my girlfriends has retired and returned home. She never knew that she was my girlfriend. We didn’t talk enough for that. I don’t think we talked at all. She was snide, cocky, and a bitch. That’s why during her return home to Rhode Island, I hope she gets mugged in Connecticut.
This particular girlfriend of mine was a waitress at a hotel bar. She had achieved the goal of every child. The world was hers. That wasn’t enough for this greedy waitress. She needed more. She had to go blowing it by getting into bar fights of her own nearly every night when she wasn’t at work. Her reputation became that of an angry drunk in bar fights. Imagine that. You work a job and everyone finds out that you suplex women off of bar stools in your spare time. I think I could kill a guy and nobody I work with would be none the wiser. Nosiness is annoying. But not as annoying as the poor women my girlfriend had been going around slapping while they enjoyed “Girl’s Night Out.”
(Now I get it. Girls are annoying while in groups and drinking. I’d hurt them too)
My girlfriend’s name was Fez. That wasn’t her real name. I forget how my friend and I came up with it. She was named after recently ousted homosexual, nature boy, and radio personality Fez Whatley whose real name isn’t even Fez. Fez of course also being one of those tiny little red hats with the string that crooners wear. I’m not sure what a crooner is or why they must wear this hat. This isn’t about hats! Shut up already!
(Fez wearing a fez back before he was an outted homosexual…yeah)
The first time I encountered Fez was around November. She was tall, thin, small-faced, dawning a ponytail, and had a red napkin hanging out of the side of her pants like a flag football player. Many times I was tempted to run up and pull it out, you know, to be flirtatious. Slowly we grew closer. One time we made eye contact. Another time she stood close to me for 3 whole minutes. Rounding up to the closest minute of course. Really, in another circumstance, like her finding me attractive, we were made for each other.
My friend and I insisted that she was looking at us. She went with her friend in the backroom, Dr. Nathan, and got in trouble for slacking off. What were they doing in that backroom? Probably gossiping about us. Wondering which one of us was hung better. Then they decided both of us must be so incredibly large and that it didn’t matter. Too bad our muscles and million dollar smiles were too much for Fez to work up the courage to talk to us. Oh and the fact that she was dating an ex-marine. I’m as far from a marine as possible. There’s not one thing we have in common. Monkey bars scare the shit out of me. They hurt my sensitive hands and the second time I broke my leg involved falling off them. Marines and terrorists are the only people who actually enjoy monkey bars. And I guess monkeys do too.
(I once broke my leg during a game of 2nd grade Hang Tough. I really should sue Larry Csonka)
I never got to meet Fez’s boyfriend. He worked there. Our bartender said she set them up together after Fez asked about Stretch Armstrong. A bit of a crushing blow to my ego. Fez didn’t ask about me? Whore. Of course after we found this, jokes about how he wouldn’t be able to have sex with her because the loud snapping sound of his balls smacking thighs would remind him of a Gatling Gun and cause him to duck and cover due to his Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, followed. I’m sure he’s a good guy and all. I still hope he gets shipped out again for my own selfish purposes. We haven’t invaded Cuba in a while. Let’s do it!
Fez’s most lasting image in my head will be that of when I saw her in street clothes. Outside of that pasty birthmark colored uniform she wears, Fez was a lot better looking. Tight pants, a tight shirt, gum snapping in her mouth like a gay cowboy chews jerky–she was everything I hate yet lust over. I knew seeing her this way that she was unattainable. Girls who look like that don’t notice guys who look like me. At best I’ll be mistaken for the guy who is there to wax her vagina. But that wouldn’t last very long. Once she drops her drawers and I have only scotch tape to tear it off, I’m fucked!
(Scotch tape, is there anything you can’t remove or put back together besides my childhood?)
The story of Fez ends with her losing her job for all of the local bar fights she got in and having to move back to Rhode Island. Yeah I know, I’ve heard that story a thousand times already. Fez is the ideal story of regression. She was really making it in the world and it all came crashing down. She had to move back in with her parents and her boyfriend, who she chose over myself, only barely talks to her now. I imagine somewhere in Providence, Fez is lying in a princess bed crying. She’s alone. No longer will she have my eyes drooling over her. Enjoy your life. I hope your parents don’t snore too loud.
“Rhode Island here we come, right back where we started from. Rhode Island!” – opening theme song to the television program The RI a spin-off of The OC
P.S. I found out the guy wasn’t a marine, but rather a member of the U.S. Coast Guard. Same difference, right?