Last night, a 50 year old woman with a beard put me in head lock and smooched me for a good 15 seconds.
That says so many sad things about me as a person.
Let's add on to my reputation as a lady killer in Dallas: As we exited the venue after the show, three smoking hot Hispanic babes grabbed Kurt and me.
"Are you guys going upstairs?" one asked.
"What's upstairs?" I replied stupidly.
"We're dancing!" they screamed.
I looked at Kurt. Nothing more needed to be said. We followed the sweet fine babe-a-trons upstairs to where nobody was dancing. Everybody actually looked miserable, drink in hand, standing mostly in the dark and not saying much.
Our ladies trailed off toward the bar. Kurt and I followed.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
The shorter of the two came back.
"Why isn't anyone dancing?" I asked.
"It is what it is," she said. And then said again about twelve more times.
I nodded at Kurt.
"Are you guys sober?" Short Babe asked.
"Extremely," I replied.
"You guys should get a drink," she suggested.
"I have some drink tickets from downstairs," Kurt gloated.
She took the tickets and turned around towards the bar, which left just enough time for Kurt and I to sprint to the staircase and leave our lovely drunk girls behind.
Surely, we left a legacy here in Dallas.