Where are we, Mexico?

It's amazing what sort of demographics you fall under when you consult an online dictionary from a computer in Italy. I couldn't imagine this ad is a moneymaker, but then again a quick glance in my spam folder and I see everything from stock trading to videos of zoo animals attacking teenagers. Naked.

Speaking of bizzare events, I was just in Prague. We're chillin at a bar, enjoying our 65 cent beers. Within 5 minutes we spot a pair of ostensibly single females of reproductive age. There was an unspoken agreement between the two of us that I was to take the less attractive one, given the events of the previous night. Let's back that up.

The night before, we were doing the exact same standing-half-slumping at the bar over an alcoholic beverage when we were approached by two women, one of whom was very attractive, and challenged to a game of foosball with the wager that the losers buy the next round of drinks. It's fortunate that drinks were so cheap because we got soundly beaten two games straight--the second game was a gift to try and regain face after getting swept the first one--and ended up sipping some tart throat-burning concoction chosen by the girls, which in retrospect was their second ploy to get us to buy them more drinks by getting us drunk. The two girls were Serbian, and the hot one who focused on me was a wannabe model trying to get something started in Prague. I could go on but I'll cut to the chase. A hour later, emboldened by all the cough syrup I had been drinking I asked her if she wanted to dance. Holding her recently refilled drink she insisted that she was expecting a text message containing the recipe for Lasagna and couldn't break eye contact with her cell phone until she received it. It saddens me to think that right now somewhere in the world this girl is going, "Yeah well that's nothing, this one time I told this guy..."

In any case because I got all that face time with the hot one (whole lot of good that did me) this night I would play a good wingman. We launch our two-pronged attack, and he dives right into what appears from the corner of my eye to be a very animated conversation. I started reserved, because I wasn't sure if he was really enjoying himself or she just had Tourette's. Sometimes Europeans gesticulate so oddly. Whatever distance I intended to keep she traversed before I got my first sentence out, and by that I mean she manhandled my arm. Then, she insisted that we speak Italian which isn't the worst thing in the world, if only she would stop manhandling my goddamn arm. Ever notice how girls know just the right spot to grab your arm? Right between the tendon and the insertion point of the tricep, so with just a light grab you feel like you're getting a body-fat caliper test done and reflexively tighten. Then, if they're the "fresh" varaiety they'll make some quip about your physical puffery whereas in fact 90% of the time the placement of her hand is just goddamn unpleasant.

After 10 minutes of Q&A with as many furtive glances in the other party's direction as I dared to make sure the suffering I was enduring was for a greater good, she asks me to recite some French poetry to her. She clasps her hands in front of her, tilt her chin up and look expectantly skyward. I'll be damnned if I know any poetry in any language, unless you count the perverse piece my so-called friend wrote to a girl on Valentine's Day last year in MY name, and then proceeded to go on a date with her NOT in my name. This poem drew a similie between the color of blood and grape juice. I hate that guy. Anyway I was at a loss, until I remembered what I read on the internet, opening paragraph. So I began to recite some lyrics, but in the back of my mind I knew the truth: I was being a tool. Another 5 minutes of this, my dutiful fulfillment of wingman duties only interrupted by her breathy exclamations of how beautiful French is, and I couldn't take it anymore. By now her thumb and forefinger were dangerously close to boring through my arm, and I had the looming feeling that I'd be here until coyote ugly. Morever, the other couple had dissappeared around the corner only adding to my despair.

Realizing that bringing our little French séance back to reality might be too jarring for her, as gently as possible I suggested that we try to rejoin with our respective others so that we don't get lost. Bad move. She spun about to face me, all the airy joy replaced by scorn, and barely said "Bye" before storming out of the bar. I took a minute to regain the self esteem I lost when I recited French rap lyrics to a girl in a bar and found the remaining couple around the corner chatting cheerily about cadavers. I carefully measured my words to diplomatically explain how things went down without directly accusing her friend of being wacko, and fortunately for us she understood all too well. Apparently her less attractive friend has a complex of being in her hotter shadow. So, when I mentioned rejoining she thought I was through with her and ready to move onto the main course. Of course that's a no brainer, and maybe in my desperation I didn't word things as carefully as I imagined, but still I really just can't bring myself to play psychiatrist when I'm at a bar in a foreign country. I mean, if you're going to be nuts that's fine but don't go to a bar and put yourself out there, stay at home with a pint of ice cream and reread your Tony Robbins.