To celebrate Carlos and Eliza’s birthdays we went out last night to Orchid in Koreatown. I like Orchid because it looks like it has a pretty diverse crowd from the few times I’ve been there. Koreans seemed to be the minority there that night. So we’re having drinks, minding our own business when a drunk white guy approaches our table. He incoherently mumbles something to us and we barely make out that he’s asking for our tambourine. Orchid has karaoke rooms upstairs and apparently someone had brought down one of the tambourines and left it on our table. I thought it’d be funny to mess with the guy, so I told him he could have it only if he played it shirtless. I’d live to regret those words. As we all know NEVER UNDERESTIMATE A DRUNKEN WHITE BOY. Anything is bound to happen. I of all people should have remembered this having went to USC, where drunken white boys are bred on frat row then unleashed onto beachside communities like Hermosa and Manhattan Beach. So this guy actually starts taking off his shirt:
Everyone at the table is laughing our asses off. Then he goes completely barechested, revealing his hirsute frontside:
Then he either saw my look of disgust or overheard me mention something about his Chuck Norris chest and proceeded to attack me, trying to rub his chest against my face:
I was screaming like a woman. From the smile on my face it might look like I’m actually enjoying this but it’s the kind of freaked out grin you have when your buddy is trying to wipe dog shit or a booger on you. Finally his friend, a less drunk white boy, came to the rescue and pulled him away from us:
Later that night while everyone was outside waiting for their cars, I saw him, tambourine in hand. He was so drunk he’d probably forgotten the incident. During the struggle to keep my face away from his chest my palm actually grazed it. It’s amazing but it felt EXACTLY as I would have imagined it to feel in my worst nightmare: fucking gross. It’s not just the soft, curly patch of hair but I could feel the hair flattening and my palm sinking into his skin as it made contact. That’s the kind of feeling only years of therapy can make go away. I’ve learned my lesson. The next time a drunken white guy asks for my tambourine I’ll politely give it to him.