Cuba Cuba (1173 Delaware) may as well have been Cancun Cancun this past Saturday the way a gaggle of bridal-shower whore-trollops were treating the place. Fucking whore-trollops.
I went there with a few college friends –- no strangers to debauchery themselves -– and as is usually the case on a weekend night, the place was a melee, body to body in the crowded bar area with tables turning faster than Brooklyn circa 1983. That was a hip-hop reference for those of you who are busters. Fucking busters.
Even in the clamor of Denver diners pounding mojitos, these whore-trollops stood out; they wore all-black, hit-the-club dresses and red, Hawaiian leis, and their occasional high-pitched shrieks from the corner fell somewhere between hyena and slaughterhouse, with cockatiel overtones. Everyone generally ignored the squawking harlots, but when I stepped out for a smoke after my second mojito, such a feat proved impossible.
“Can I bum a cigarette?” three whore-trollops shrieked as one, teetering towards me terrifyingly in impossibly high heels.
One, two, three I handed out cancer, and then one, two, three I tried to light their fags. The whore-trollops weaved in and out of the flame of my Bic, lighting their cigarettes with varying degrees of success. Then lo, another whore-trollop appeared from the dark mist down the block.
“Where the fuck is Cary?” the newest whore-trollop inquired angrily, her hair a discarded bird’s nest.
“First of all, lower your voice,” another responded, spitting.
“Don’t tell me to lower my voice, that fucking bitch just bounced on us? That’s fucked up. I put so much work into organizing this entire bachelorette party and she just fucking bounces?”
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“Whoa, you did not just say that you organized this whole fucking thing!”
This quickly devolved into the two of them bumping breasts in the most hilarious and futile posturing I have seen since high school. Meanwhile another one of the clan was on her cell phone trying to summon a cab, angrily asking someone, anyone, what the fuck the address of Cuba Cuba was? It was marked quite clearly not four feet above her head. I told her the address and rather than thanking me for my information – or the cigarette I had given her – this whore-trollop also simply spat. It must be the new hip thing with whore-trollops this season. We’ll probably see it at Forever 21 soon. Bitches just spitting everywhere.
I wanted to follow these women deep into the LoDo night because I had this guttural feeling that one of these girls was destined to be my bride, but alas, I had to leave the whore-trollops fighting and crying and spitting on the curb. My friend had texted me from inside that our table was ready. And I had delicious mahi to eat.
And miles of mojitos before I could sleep. -- Adam Cayton-Holland