It feels odd to me that not only are there specific hours during the day in which you should be happy, but that bars and taverns are dictating when these hours exist. And really, how do we know WHICH place will guarantee us the happiest hours?
I just know if I was put in charge of creating the world's happy hours, I'd make them really far apart just to fuck with people. Today's happy hours are from 7-8am and from 3-4pm. Here's your cheap booze.
That having been said, you know what makes me REALLY happy? Cheap booze. And of course hookers, but yesterday I had to settle for the cheap booze. And for four minutes - four GLORIOUS minutes from the time we got to the Mangy Pit (because I forgot the bar's real name) at 6:56 all the way through to the end of Happy Hour at 7:00 - I got to experience what the rest of these work-a-day professionals in their white collars and their polished shoes and their musty aroma get the pleasure of experiencing nearly every working day of their lives.
I got a rum and coke ... for three dollars.
And I didn't even care that after the initial four minutes, I had to spend three more Suck-Ass Unhappy Hours (is that the official title given to the 22 non-Happy Hours during the day?) paying six dollars for the same rum and cokes, because I had myself a good time.
Who knew? Who knew I'd be a Happy Hour guy? First a Riesling Guy, then a Ziti Guy, now this.
It probably helped that Jenny was there. And it also probably helped that The Donald was there, back from the dead and now living in the big city as of Tuesday. And it also probably helped that one of Jenny's co-workers and her friends were there and they were all highly entertaining. I probably had five or six rum and cokes on an empty stomach (and I'm telling you, this stomach was fucking VACANT; I was starving from the get-go and only had my usual two sandwiches to get me through the Suck-Ass Unhappy Day), then I filled my belly at the end of the night with two greasy slices of pepperoni pizza. Like I said: a good fuckin' day.
Today I return to the toil. I'll be gymming it up the next three days, followed by another fucking early Seahawks game on Sunday. But, on the plus side, the two guys who've been giving me a steady flow of work are out today and probably even tomorrow. If they only had a surly-hot bartender scowling at me as she served me cheap booze, I'd call these the Happy Hours.