An Apology to Becky Regarding Barf

Who in L.A. hasn’t stepped on beer-face leakage?
by Dan Gillis III

Dear Becky,

I’ve been known to party from time to time.

But just between you and me, I really don’t like party surprises, especially when it has an impact on my impending alcoholism. Recently, I succumbed to paying a cover for some lame-ass bar that charged an assload just to get my kicks through the door. I know. It’s not my style, but hey even Dan Gillis needs to get his drink on! Sauntering in like Mr. Fancy-Pants, I snaked my way through the crowds like I owned the joint (or at least like I’d just smoked one). As I gazed around the room, looking for my vast list of foes to avoid, my attention moved from admiring my own awesome attire to defending myself against a knee to the groin or a coaster to the elbow. (Hey it happens! \Some people want me dead around this town.) It is in this moment of weakness that I inadvertently took a misguided and unfortunate step onto a strangely viscous piece of Earth.

That’s right bitches, it’s barf. And not my own.

I was up to my Chucks in it … again! It is an infamous tradition that has been a celebration of agony for my sweet sneaks that leaves no venue unscathed. No matter if I’m seeing Joanna Newsom or Cannibal Corpse, if there’s puke in the venue’s vicinity these boots were made for walking in it. Which begs the question:

Who spewed on my shoes this time?

Was it that guy in the cargo shorts holding the red cup? Perhaps it was that 15-year-old with the airline bottle of Goldschlager? Or maybe it was that kid with the thick rims and the asymmetrical hair mixing an “irony beer” with veggie burgers.

We’ve all seen these people. The barfers, the tossers, the pukers and even the yakkers. But on this particular night, there is a danger from below as a ferocious face emerges from the crowd for a breath of fresh bile.

Yes, that’s right my kittens. I’m talking about the queens of queasy: the beauty barfers. They used to show up at few places outside of frat rows and high school bathrooms, but recently they’ve reared their prettily powered faces to emit steady streams of spew into the populace.

And directly onto my shoes.

It’s not a pretty sight, these ladies all hunched over, low-rise jeans revealing an ass-crack and the ubiquitous dolphin-jumping-over-a-sun back tattoo. But these few, more often than not, are the puke perpetrators. It’s a scientific fact that beer breeds barf. And barf, consequently, breeds barf (see also: Stand By Me). Thus beginning the disgusting journey from glass to the ground to my kicks. It’s like these girls were planning it all along! I can only imagine their pre-party, where they get together over a dinner of carrots and Hidden Valley ranch dressing, giggling about what lucky fellow (or lady) will get to enjoy their masterpieces of mastication.

Well, tonight that fellow happened to be me.

But Becky, you already know this, and so here I am telling you a little secret. You see, I barf too. Many moons ago, we all went to the Beauty Bar, where our friend was working at the bar. The free fucking drinks flowed like water from my cracked radiator and we couldn’t resist.

I know it sounds like a blessing, but friends, it became a curse as one Jager shot turned into many. Gin and tonics replicated themselves like cellular mitosis and jumped into my tummy. It was several minutes later that I found myself explaining to different attractive ladies how I was a doily maker and that I cut them oh-so-delicately with the precision of a Christmas elf. Things got shadier as I found myself sensuously humping random inanimate objects, and once I think I tried to wipe my ass on the ground like a dauschund puppy.

It’s signs like these that point to impending disaster.

Needless to say there were some problems later, mostly involving a slice of pizza, my somersaulting stomach, a moving car and a window. I might add that that I did mention to my kind friends in the back seat that “I feel sick” but of course that probably should have been mentioned before I heaved while cruising west on the 10 freeway.

So to you people out there seeking to assault the Adidas of sweet, innocent fuckers like myself, I say: Eat a dick.

And to Becky, I say sorry about barfing on your face.

Sincerely,
Dan Gillis, III