(After a Saturday evening performance.)
ME: Hey, so where's everybody going? Isn't anybody going out tonight?
SIARDE: Well, me and my girlfriend were going to go check out PI.
ME: PI? What, are we talking, like, Baker's Square pie, or the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter in Euclidean geometry pi?
SIARDE: Uh, it's a bar.
ME: Oh, okay. So, what, are there gonna be a lot of girls there?
SIARDE: Oh, yeah. Definitely. Tons.
ME: Sweet! I'll meet you there.
ME: So, what are my chances of getting laid tonight?
SIARDE: Uh, probably not great.
ME: What, is there a cock detector at the door or something? Is some kind of alarm gonna sound when I walk in?
SIARDE: Yeah, something like that.
ME: Shit, you weren't kidding. There's a ton of hot girls here. Man, look at all of them! Wow, check out those two are doing! This place is...this...is a dyke bar. You brought me to a fucking dyke bar. Oh, fuck you, Siarde. Fuck you.
SIARDE: There's a five dollar cover. I don't really want to pay it.
ME: C'mon, we can cover it.
SIARDE: Fine. Let's go ahead and get raped.
ME: Uh, you mean economically, right?
SIARDE: Why don't you go ahead and get something to drink.
(Four drinks later.)
ME: WHAZZUP, MY SEXUALLY INACCESSIBLE BITCHES!
SIARDE: Uh, you doing all right, phil?
ME: Y'know, this is a lot like my idea of what hell would be. I'm gonna go home and masturbate so hard, bone marrow's gonna come out, you know what I'm saying?
SIARDE: Oh...oh yeah?
ME: I don't suppose there's a section for hot bi girls here, is there?
SIARDE: No. No, there isn't.
ME: Goddammit, I have all of this grade-A cock that's just withering on the vine.
Needless to say, I did not score.