First, hit a classic car show in Olde Arvada (you know it's old when they spell it O-L-D-E) and then go see Cowboys and Aliens (which--sidenote--was the perfect mashup of two genres).
It was hot. After wandering around at the car show, Beau and I decided to stop for a beer before we walked down the block to the movie theater.
As we sat down, a fella sitting at the end of the bar (around my age, vague air of douchebaggery about him) told us that if we wanted to sit there, we had to "be nice."
Ok, whatever.
As we sat down, we started paging through our phones to see the pictures we got of some of the cars outside. While we're doing that, I hear the fella tell the bartender:
That's the perfect relationship down there. They just sit and look at their phones and they don't talk. It's genius! He never has to listen to her!
Now that's kind of a dick move.
So I turned to him and (thanks to the mighty heavens above who blessed me with this response) said:
Oh, we talk. And the conversation's usually about some guy sitting all alone at the end of the bar and the myriad reasons why he doesn't have a girlfriend.
Burn, mofo! Burn!
And THAT, I said to Beau as I took a sip of my beer, is why you don't mess with the smart girl at the bar.
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