The Corner Pub

The streetlights buzzed as Johnny Q stumbled through a conical shaft of illumination.

At this point his balance was more luck than skill, yet he managed to penetrate the double doors that shrouded the holy tabernacle of alcohol pursuance — The Corner Pub. The Corner Pub was known in Lakwewood as “Skid Row Paradise” minus the paradise. One look in the bathroom permitted one an ample view of skidmarks but the paradise seemed in short supply. The usual clientele consisted of a baker’s dozen alcoholic retirees, all of whom wanted to pick up women like they were still in high school.

There were a lot of missing teeth.

At 37 with only a single root canal slash crown on his dental CV, Johnny Q was the most orally advanced man in the bar, and consequently the most valuable.

Such contextual value oftentimes boosts the confidence of a man, and this was the case with Johnny. Standing there he felt virile, like he could have any woman in the place. Considering that two of the fifteen souls inside The Corner Pub sported vaginas and both those dick gobblers were flirting with “the best used by date”, there wasn’t much sense in taking a risk. But given the newest laws passed to protect females, the mere thought of an unwanted approach could get a man 3-5 years in Mansfield.

And we all know who the arbiters of want are.

Johnny wandered in, taking some eyeballs from competitors, men with twenty extra years on their bones and a deficit of twenty teeth to Johnny’s set of near capacity chompers. He sat at the bar, and this was when, through the suitably hazy alcoholic stupor he’d tied on earlier, Johnny Q saw the most beautiful woman he had ever saw. Six feet of Amazonian muscle formerly hidden from his male gaze by an enormous bartender. Wearing only a pair of stripped boots, bikini bottoms, and a tiara, she made Grace Jones look like a Playboy Bunny.

The way she looked, Johnny salivated, a three year stint in the pen was worth the chance.

Johnny got up and positioned himself at the most seductivest and musculatured flanks Johnny had ever seen. The Amazonian welcomed Johnny with a turn of the head. She was a hard one. She had learned this move from Clover, the shrewiest Amish broad in Berlin, Ohio. But that’s another story. With a reception as chilly as this, pressing forward with the approach would be a serious risk to say anything, but Johnny wanted those massive breasts enough to ask this woman if it was just him or if it was hot inside the confines of the corner pub.

This was the wrong thing to say.

The sound of his voice prompted the Amazonian hottie to explode in a fit of rage.

With respect to feminism, of the third wave variety, that is, the Amazonian hottie exploded with a fit of rage. She dumped her drink over Johnny’s head, then smacked a Stroh’s bottle across his cheek. She then screamed like a demonic minion, and finally concluded with a fit of tears and a declaration of powerlessness due to her female genitalia. It was a performance filled with such extremes, Johnny was afraid to move. He had drastically underestimated her identification level with the damsel in distress.

“You said some of my trigger words,” the Amazonian whimpered as she piteously bawled into her oversized palms.

He had no choice now but to promptly apologize. How was he to know he’d triggered her? He had never spoken to this woman before. How would he know what her triggers were? “I’m really very sorry,” he ventured carefully, hoping to evade any other emotional hot points hidden inside her psyche.

“You should be careful!” cried the Amazonian. “You can’t just go around saying things to women you don’t know. It’s abusive!”

“I’m really sorry,” Johnny said. “I didn’t mean to trigger you. Really, I didn’t.” He had thought about fleeing but worried the woman might be triggered again.

“Well, you did,” the Amazonian barked. “You triggered me good and hard!” and this was when she dialed 9-1-1.


It was no longer 2016. Back then, women had decency and morals. Now women dressed in high heeled boots, g-strings, and that’s about all.