By Joel Warner
By Michael Roberts
By Alan Prendergast
By Michael Roberts
By Michael Roberts
By Amber Taufen
By Patricia Calhoun
By William Breathes
Thursdays at Hemingway's, as any profiler of the opposite sex can tell you, usually go off. Show up there around ten, and the waft of desperation hits you like a Wiffle bat to the face. DU girls in their skimpiest textiles bump uglies with goony idiots, their fat necks obscured by upturned collars, and all of them are caught in the shuffle of the let's-make-a-baby-but-not-make-a-baby waltz. It's gross. But you go there anyway, because there are hot girls and you like hot girls, plus it's Thursday, and you haven't drunk since Tuesday. Much.
Such was the case when What's So Funny found ourselves at said purveyor of food and booze. We were there with a group of medical-school friends -- or a pod, as they're commonly called in the wild -- and we were in carnival spirits. One of the wannabe doctors requested our assistance in carrying over a round. Outfitted with two tall, frosty beers, Funny attempted to weave our way back -- but halfway through the crowd were dealt a wayward bump by some Polo-clad waste of oxygen and went hurtling forward, toward two girls standing against a wall. Miraculously, we regained our balance at the last second and avoided dousing the comely lasses.
"Do you have any idea how money that was?" we asked, emboldened. "You could have just gotten completely soaked, but because of our deft maneuvering, the day was saved."
"You're hot," the girl on the right responded.
We were a bit taken back because a) the comment did not pertain at all to what we had just said, and b) rarely does anyone so succinctly, so perfectly, sum up What's So Funny. But we recovered.
"You're hot, too," we said.
"What about my friend? Don't you think she's hot?"
"Your friend is very hot," What's So Funny retorted.
"Well, I think you're hot," the friend said.
Hot damn! We were in! Two of them! And did you catch that they were hot? But as What's So Funny made small talk, things started turning south.
"So, what do you think of this place?" inexplicably crawled out of our mouth.
"It's okay," one of the girls -- it doesn't matter which one -- responded. "What do you think of it?"
"Well, let's just say if Ernest Hemingway came walking through that door right now and took a look around, he'd probably take out a shotgun and shoot himself in the face all over again."
"Who's Ernest Hemingway?" the girl on the right asked.
This in Denver, the #1 singles city in America for the second year in a row -- at least according to Forbes.com, an outfit qualified to assess the national singles situation because it covers business. And Funny would like to suggest that Forbes keep its focus on business, because regardless of its polls, charts and graphs, this is not the best singles city in America. Not even close. What's So Funny is as single as a recently detached Siamese twin whose weaker brother died in the operation, yet we're not carting home wheelbarrows full of cover girls night after night. Not even dead ones. Sure, we have a little "intelligence barometer" for the ladies -- namely, that they should have at least a vague idea of the assigned authors in a public high school literature class -- but that doesn't mean that we, of all people, should be single. In the best singles city in America, What's So Funny -- what with our healthy sheen, vigorous strut and "hot"-evoking visage -- should be able to walk up to any girl we please, candidly inform her of our fondness for foreign cinema and shooting firecrackers at passing cars, and just like that, she should be ours.
But maybe we need to refine our approach. Maybe this is the best singles city in the country, and we're just not working it right. Maybe we should be out there more often, trying harder. We did hear of this cool new bar called Steinbeck's.