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Baby Idiots

These days it is not always easy to be a man. What, with all the mixed signals you get.

Of course in the Gutter, most of those mixed signals are the wires crossed in your own brain...

Baby Idiots by Carl Robinette



You know when it seems like basically everyone is a full-on butthole?

You know.

Like everyone you know or meet is just out to win. Cheat. Cut in line. Like baby idiots, all dumb and drooling like they don’t even care.

And then you go to some pretty cool bar or someplace and you’re still basically bummed at the world, but you have to admit—this place ain’t half-bad. Then you meet the bartender and she’s about a bazillion levels of hotness.

She goes, What can I get you?

You’re all, Um double Macallan … cutie. Because you want to impress her, but you’re embarrassed right-off for saying it. Also, you have to change your drink order because you can’t really afford Macallan.

But she’s basically the coolest babe ever, and it’s obvious by the beautiful way she looks at you that she doesn’t even care if you don’t have beaucoup bucks, and she maybe even liked it when you called her cutie.

Of course she liked it. Women.

And finally you’re feeling pretty good. Like, no worries baby-boo. Then some stooge walks in.

And he’s not even losing his hair at all.

Sure he has big arms and a flat stomach and straight teeth and if you like all of those things then maybe you would’ve liked this guy. But he’s probably just some USMC reject who couldn’t clear the psyche evaluation, which is way more embarrassing than being rejected because you couldn’t pass the physical, probably.

Even though the guy doesn’t call the bartender cutie or anything, you can tell he’s flirting with her, and she was already falling for you. And you’re so tired of all of these buttholes going along, pushing people around to get what they want. And if you don’t defend beautiful maidens, then who will?

So you go, Hey, bozo, don’t be a stooge. The lady and I were discussing scotch.

The stooge is like, What the fuck, dude?

You tell him, I said scram fart-knocker.

He’s all, Oh? Why don’t we go outside?

No. Let’s fight instead.

And sometimes you just have make up your mind right there. Maybe this guy’s taller and stronger and looks like he has more MMA training than you, but you’re taking a stand against all the rude baby idiots. Right here. Right now.

When he shoves your chest and nearly knocks you off your bar stool, you’re already ready.

*

You know when you’re about to smash someone over the head with a beer bottle? And you picture it like the movies where the dumb-dumb gets hit and he just goes cross-eyed and sits down after the bottle explodes into a million tiny green pebbles?

And then you do it in real life and the bottle just bounces off the dumb-dumb’s skull, and he actually really goes cross-eyed, only there's way more blood than the movies.

It’s pretty disappointing because hearing that glass-smashing sound would have been so satisfying and you think, maybe you just didn’t do it right. But even two or three hits won’t break the bottle.

Hollywood can be so fake.

The bartender, she starts screaming and crying and everything, probably because what you just did was so romantic she can’t even control herself.

But instead of kissing you she goes, Rick? Rick? To the stooge. Then she looks at you and goes, You killed my boyfriend.

Boyfriend?

Women can be pretty friggin’ fake too. Believe me.

You tell her, No, no. He’s not dead. He’s probably just in a light coma or something.

When she says she’s calling the cops, you’re pretty bummed to leave, because you probably still had a chance with her if you just apologized right and got her some romantic gift. Like a Precious Moments figurine.

Also, even though you’re bummed, you’re like, Sweet. At least I didn’t have to pay for my beer.

And it’s just so typical because nobody really wants you to be happy. Everybody just wants what’s best for them. So what if the bartender-slash-cutie of your dreams only likes guys who are gorgeous and buff with cool tattoos?

Basically, she definitely would’ve probably just turned out to be a drooling baby idiot like all the rest anyway.


Carl Robinette is a journalist and author bent on saving the world from people who don’t agree with him. His fiction has been published in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and Shotgun Honey. When he is not writing fiction he poses as a reporter for The Star News and several other San Diego publications. www.carlrobinette.com