The Penguin was throwing up on the sidewalk in front of the bar when I carefully made my way inside. I was doing my best to avert my eyes, but the sight of a very obese man puking his guts out while his pants were down at his ankles proved to be surprisingly difficult to look away from. Singly, any of the elements that were currently in front of me would repulse me. Put them all together, though, and it was something that needed to be seen - needed to be witnessed and documented.
He wasn't wearing any underwear, either; in the 4-man process of carrying The Penguin's passed-out body out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, the sweatpants slid right off. No one volunteered to push them back up.
"Is he still out there," Jason asked. He had been one of the 4 who carried him out. As the bartender, he had the most to lose from having The Penguin stumbling around the entrance.
"Yeah, he's still there. Looks a bit rough."
"Goddamn it." Jason rolled his eyes and made his outside to confront The Penguin again.
"Did you get a good look at his ass," Shane asked. He was also a bartender there, but it was his day off, so he was free to revel in the absurdity without worrying about how it could affect his tips.
"I definitely saw it, but I can't say that it was my main focus."
"It's covered in zits! I swear, man, the whole thing is covered in zits. After his pants came off, he was face down on the sidewalk, zit-covered ass in the air. Candy corn zits, too: three different colors - you know what I mean? - all over his ass. I took a picture of it on my phone."
"Please don't ever show that to me."
Jason demanded to see The Penguin's cell phone, then asked him to pick a contact for Jason to call to come pick The Penguin up, otherwise Jason was calling the cops.
"You should've been here when he passed out," Shane continued. "He just went 'phwoomp' and fell right off his chair. Out cold. Motherfucker was heavy as shit, too. The four of us had a bitch of a time just trying to carry him from his chair to the door; all that lifeless fat shifting around - it was like trying to move a waterbed."
Jason came back in, looking disgusted. A buddy of The Penguin was on his way. When the buddy arrived in his truck, The Penguin struggled mightily to get inside. At no point did he try to pull his pants up.
Though I confidently assumed it was Batman-related, I never bothered to ask anyone why they called him The Penguin. I never got a good look at the front of him to determine his Burgess Merideth-ness. It didn't matter anymore, though - was best to move on and try to find better images to replace the incredibly unappealing one that was still stuck in all our heads.
He wasn't wearing any underwear, either; in the 4-man process of carrying The Penguin's passed-out body out of the bar and onto the sidewalk, the sweatpants slid right off. No one volunteered to push them back up.
"Is he still out there," Jason asked. He had been one of the 4 who carried him out. As the bartender, he had the most to lose from having The Penguin stumbling around the entrance.
"Yeah, he's still there. Looks a bit rough."
"Goddamn it." Jason rolled his eyes and made his outside to confront The Penguin again.
"Did you get a good look at his ass," Shane asked. He was also a bartender there, but it was his day off, so he was free to revel in the absurdity without worrying about how it could affect his tips.
"I definitely saw it, but I can't say that it was my main focus."
"It's covered in zits! I swear, man, the whole thing is covered in zits. After his pants came off, he was face down on the sidewalk, zit-covered ass in the air. Candy corn zits, too: three different colors - you know what I mean? - all over his ass. I took a picture of it on my phone."
"Please don't ever show that to me."
Jason demanded to see The Penguin's cell phone, then asked him to pick a contact for Jason to call to come pick The Penguin up, otherwise Jason was calling the cops.
"You should've been here when he passed out," Shane continued. "He just went 'phwoomp' and fell right off his chair. Out cold. Motherfucker was heavy as shit, too. The four of us had a bitch of a time just trying to carry him from his chair to the door; all that lifeless fat shifting around - it was like trying to move a waterbed."
Jason came back in, looking disgusted. A buddy of The Penguin was on his way. When the buddy arrived in his truck, The Penguin struggled mightily to get inside. At no point did he try to pull his pants up.
Though I confidently assumed it was Batman-related, I never bothered to ask anyone why they called him The Penguin. I never got a good look at the front of him to determine his Burgess Merideth-ness. It didn't matter anymore, though - was best to move on and try to find better images to replace the incredibly unappealing one that was still stuck in all our heads.
