Last night it was the Hashers, who showed up after they'd gone on a four-mile run in the snow. I knew the Hashers were self-proclaimed "runners with a drinking problem," but I didn't know they were all sexxxy and shit until they got here.
It was a smallish rush, maybe forty people, but it got Jodi moving. She's doing stretches and calisthenics behind the bar. I'm outside smoking, and when I come back in there's a gal in the kissing booth with a couple guys begging on her for some. I start flipping her a little shit about how she has to give me a dime out of every dollar if she's gonna charge for it, and I kind of overhear one of the guys say something about her nipples as I'm walking away. Get to the bar and turn around just in time to see a different gal pulling down her shirt as she walks out from behind the kissing booth. Yeah, not to be upstaged, she'd flashed the guys on her way out of the bathroom, and their reactions are one step shy of rubbing away at their peckers in public.
The rush winds down. Jodi's still going double-time on the dishes and clean up as if there's still three-dozen people there, like maybe she can't really stop once she gets moving. I'm having a sammich and listening in on the last of the Hashers as they wind down. A guy and a gal, arguing--no not really arguing, but having a very detailed and involved discussion--over the size of a mutual friend's tits. They get side-tracked into this whole discussion of how the guy is definitely not queer because the gal has never, ever heard him talk about another guy's ass or cock or anything and another about how the gal is definitely not a lez-bean, even though there are a lot of lez-beans in Portland. They probably wouldn't know a gen-u-ine lez-bean if she were standing four feet away and had been serving them drinks all night, but...never mind. They return to some serious brow-furrowed contemplation of their friend's tit size, and then...BAM! The gal pulls up her shirt. Her tits are ginormous, almost as big as the eyes of the three guys she's with. I'm done.
"Hey!" I yell at her. "Cage those things! This is effing Slabtown! We don't do that shit here!"
Seriously, I could give a rat's ass less if she shows people her tits in my bar, but I effing love saying that.
And, truthfully, I loved having the Hashers in last night. If you're into drinking and running (and if yr alter-ego is a hare named something like Skinny Bitch, Barely ManBelow, or Cockjaw), track these folks down. They were all having an effin' blast last night. People buying pitchers and not knowing how many glasses they want because they're sharing with everyone. No attitudes, no jerks, just some guys and gals going on a little four-mile run in the snow and then hanging out for some hot toddy's and beers.
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