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?”
“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
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