Firecrotch & his Red Friends

Only in DC.

I'm a huge liberal. And though I can respect others' opinions, I also really don't like republican men. Here's why.

I used to wait tables at my bar on Wednesday nights. Management would let me come in at 6pm, after my day job and before the dinner rush. Even though I was 2 hours late I was still able to make decent money.

It was one such Wednesday a little after 6 when I met Mike. It was busy that night and I was standing around waiting for some tables to turn over so I could take them over. He asked if I could help him get a drink. I gladly cocktailed for Mike and his friends, picking up a couple extra bucks. Then Mike made a play for me.

Can I get your number?

He was a medium-height, medium-build guy with red hair. I wasn't particularly attracted.

No, I'm sorry. I can't give out my number at work. I can take your card, though.

This is my stock response. I like it cuz the ball's then in my court (so I can drop it). A bitch may not call, but you seem at worst flaky if you lose someone's card. "I'm in government," he said, handing it over.

Which branch?
Executive.
What? So you're a republican.
Yes. I work in the White House for the President.

I rolled my eyes and looked away.

A compassionate republican. I'd still love to take you to dinner.

I have to admit, besides the bullshit line, my enemy had me intrigued. His eyes looked genuine, sincere. Besides, 2/4ths of my parents are republicans. You can't make blanket statements about people. And then, from deep down inside, my inner Gold Digger began wondering if I could use him to finally go to Butterfield 9. Then for added measure, my less-inner Industry Whore shot me a fast-forward of years later, being able to tell my grandkids about my date with the White House Staffer: 'Before I married your grandad...' (Come on, at least I'm honest!)

Mike and his other Red friends ended up having dinner in my section that night. They ordered at least 2 pitchers of mojitos, and the conversation got more and more inappropriate.
As I cleared their plates, my hands already full, they tried to put a pen that was left on the table in my mouth.
After bringing Mike the dish of whipped cream he wanted for desert, he tried to feed me the cherry.
When I flirtingly asked him if he were metrosexual, Mike replied:

I'm so metro, I could fuck that guy's dog!

(Comparing homosexuality or even metrosexuality to beastiality is no way to win points with me).

And then it happened.

Mike was drunk at this point. He insisted on getting his card back so he could give me his cell number.

When do you get off? You need to meet us out!
How about, instead of dinner or drinks later, we do lunch tomorrow. Right after I get done picketing.

The Red guys laughed.

What will you picket?
Oh, I dunno. Judge Roberts?

More laughter.

Oh, you know about Judge Roberts?!

(I guess the skimpy shirt and tight jeans don't scream 'intelligent.')

Mike raised an eyebrow.

But do you know his first name?

I didn't.

I dunno. Judge Dickhead-Who-Won't-Let-Me-Get-An-Abortion Roberts?

The Red boys roared. Then Mike leaned over, closer to me, so I'd be sure to hear him:

Roar, after tonight, I WANT you to get an abortion.

I froze. I knew it was one of those defining moments that I would one day look back on. I could either kick myself for continuing to ingratiate myself for their tip, or I could do what I did.

I dropped his card on the table and walked away. Within two minutes, I was back to drop their check. I was done with them.

I had known before they sat down that, on an ideological level, I did not get along with these guys. But the fact that a representative of the President would suggest he wanted to pork me raw so I'd have to have my insides scraped out, well, that really drove the point home for me.

And ps- I now ignore the Gold Digger and Industry Whore in my head. They're only trouble, anyway.