Ever got your arm stuck in a pool table? Yeah, me neither. But some daffy dilettante just happened to accomplish that daring feat of blinding stupidity, which, of course, gave the bar a bit of urban legend status because customers still come into the establishment asking if we’re that bar where that blonde chick got her arm stuck in the pool table.
So it’s just another Saturday night. The usual group of thirsty ne’er-do-wells are lumbering around the bar in feeble attempts at coy social interaction. I’m doing my thing, refilling cocktails and making snarky comments to daft frat boys replete with collars popped and wispy saline enhanced girlfriends close by.
Right about this time one of my gigantic doormen comes behind the bar to relay to me that some girl has managed to get her arm caught in the corner pocket of a pool table. I kind of chuckled, then did a double take. Holy jeebus, he wasn’t kidding.
The jiggly diva had stuck her hand down the corner pocket in an attempt to grab the cue ball.
Yes, the question that is mostly likely starting to form in your mind is probably the very same thing I asked her. Why in the world didn’t she simply walk over to the edge of the pool table, and grab the ball out of the cue ball drop?
Her brilliant response: “‘Cause I felt like I could grab it.”
Well, it’s hard to argue with that deft and witty logic.
Then again, I wanted to hit her in the forehead with a pool stick because I felt like it. Good thing I own a little thing called impulse control.
The next step was trying to determine how we were going to get her hand out. Various forms of lube were tried, but nothing was working. So I had the other bartender call the owner at midnight to apprise them that there was a good chance her pool table is going to be ruined. I’m sure glad I didn’t have to make that call.
Quickly running out of options, I called the fire department and told them what was going on. After about of minute of laughter from the dispatcher, she agreed to send some of our local heroes to help us rectify our situation.
Now at this point, our frisky heroine was still being held captive by the vicious billiard beast, was still elbow deep in green felt and was really starting to freak out.
I tried to get her to calm down and she started muttering something akin to how much she enjoys Motley Crue. Well, I guess admitting your love for hair metal should bypass purgatory. I also guess she felt like this was a chance to utter her last rights.
Then, as if by divine intervention (and the knowledge that the authorities were arriving soon to cut her out of the pool table), she twisted, wriggled, and then ripped her arm out of the gaming device. A round of raucous applause followed from the people waiting play on that table. And myself.
The lady of circumstance relayed to me that she will never step foot in my establishment again. And she stayed true to that claim for a whole six days.
Well, here’s the lesson for the day boys and girl: when you’re drunk and impetuous, there is a price you pay when you’re grabbing balls that aren’t your own. Game on.
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