Check it, Peons: Your CNN Humiliation Compartmentalized

Wednesday, September 13, 2006


Atlanta is a rather large city with a variety of drinking establishments, right?
So why is it that every single time I went out, no matter where I went out, I ran into CNN co-workers?
I know that "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name..."
But sometimes you just want to NOT see the same mother fuckers you work with everyday.
I tried achieve this dream by going to many different kinds of bars. I tried odious 70's theme bars like Car Wash, stupid sports bars like Bats and Balls and those ubiquitous martini bars like Leopard Lounge. And actually, at that bar I was so drunk once that when one rotund co-worker came in, I squeezed his breasts. I don't think he cared for it much.
Obviously, there was one bar that you stayed away from if you were incapable of facing hordes of CNNers. The Highland Tap. This is a cavernous, Flintstone looking bar that would actually be very cool. Except it was constantly infested with CNNers. Yes, it was a rare day indeed at CNN when you did not hear the refrain of "Let's meet at The Tap." This was always met with a chorus of "Oh I LOVE that place!"
People would get all excited about this prospect, like it was some new kind of thrilling adventure; practically falling out of their ergonomically correct furniture about the mere possibility of swilling down a lite beer after work in some windowless place with the same dull co-workers they looked at day in and day out.
There was only one time that seeing a co-worker at a bar worked in my benefit.
I was out with a friend at a dismal dance club, drinking one too many Long Island Ice Teas. This friend went scouting around the room by himself for hot men. I was left alone, dizzy and perched precariously on a bar stool.
Not sure what happened, but I fell off the bar stool, and managed to bust my chin open on something sharp. When I came to, a CNN co-worker was shaking me saying
"We've got to get you to Piedmont Hospital."
We zoomed off, my chin beeding into a pile of cocktail napkins.
He stayed with me for three hours, waiting for the plastic surgeon, and then held my hand as six stitches were sewed into my chin.
A couple weeks later when they came out, I gave three of them to a friend. The other three I taped into the thank you card for my knight in shining armor, whom I dated for the next couple of years.
Last I heard, they both still have my stitches.

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