An Irish Accent and a Park Bench

Some nights at the bar are unforgettable. Other nights, you wish you could scrub your brain with a hard brush and hot bleach.

The girls and I were spending our usual Friday night at the old man's pub, drinking cheap cocktails and making fun of our exes. A couple of guys hang around throwing darts, some others smack talk each other at the pool table. They linger and leer at the out of place group of giggling girls squished into the only oversized wooden booth. A few young and eager overgrown teenagers shove their hands in their pockets and avoid eye contact at all costs. We don't fit in and that's precisely why we hang out there. No chance of being distracted by checking out available men.

One "older" gentleman (read: older than me, but by no means "old") breaks free from the pack and sidles up to our foursome. He slides into the worn leather seat next to me. Why is it always next to me? I have to give him credit for being so brave. It takes a lot of courage to approach a girl surrounded by her friends, but he does it the right way - he buys a round of drinks. I appreciate a man who buys me a drink for sure, but a man who buys drinks for all my friends clearly read the playbook. Well done, sir.

The man's hair is slightly gray, but not in a grandfather kind of way. More of a salt and pepper sexy celebrity sort of way. What is it about guys getting older that makes them look more distinguished and therefore desirable? He's well dressed in a button down and jeans that fit in all the right places. I'm a sucker for a guy in jeans! Blame it on the country music. He's pleasant and funny and tells us how he's a forty-four year old divorced father of four girls, and proceeds to show us the cutest pictures of them. He's now looking to start his life over with a woman who wants him for him, who wants real love, and a passionate life. I'm not usually one to date a man with a built in family, but this guy is charming as hell and possibly worth getting to know better.

Wait for it...

Upon hearing Bella's British accent, he asks me if I can do an Irish accent. While I lived in England for five years and have been known to put on an occasional English or Scottish accent, my Irish can only be described as wholly unbelievable. Why does he want to know?

"I've always had this fantasy of making out with a beautiful woman with red hair and an Irish accent."

I am clearly blonde. And American. There is no mistaking either of these things.

"So I was thinking that if you could at least do the accent, I'd be willing to overlook the red hair."

Gee, thanks buddy.

"Anyway, in this fantasy, the woman would bend me over a park bench, pull my pants down, and lick my ass. I don't want to do this with anyone else, but I think I could get really into it with you. There happens to be a bench right outside the bar. So what do you say?"

What do I say??? What the fuck is there to say? There is No Good Answer to that question. There are no words to respond to that request. First of all, if someone is licking your ass, wouldn't she be entirely too busy to speak? Secondly, why a park bench? Third, what exactly about my pre-school teacher persona makes you think for a split second that I'm going to take you outside and lick your ANYTHING?!?!

I downed the rest of my Cosmo, and finished off everyone else's, just to wash down the shocking image of Divorced Dad's Bare Ass Bent Over a Park Bench. Now, I cannot help but shudder every time I hear an Irish accent. I am forever traumatized when I walk past a park bench, and haven't been back to that old man's pub since.

I've always said this blog should be subtitled: You can't make this shit up.

*Note: Please pardon my use of the word "shit." This is why I'm single.