Trolling. for all intents and purposes, means the following:
verb (used with object)
1. to sing or utter in a full, rolling voice.
2. to sing in the manner of a round or catch.
3. to fish for or in with a moving line, working the line up or down with a rod, as in fishing for pike, or trailing the line behind a slow-moving boat.
4. to move (the line or bait) in doing this.
5. to cause to turn round and round; roll.
That's right. It's more or less a fishing term. Until you apply it to the single, tan, 50-60 year old male, who, more often than not, enjoys spending his late afternoons on the golf couse with his pals, getting slightly liquored up before heading out to their favorite up-scale pub for happy hour....and a bit of heavy trolling.
Now the word trolling takes on a whole new meaning.
These guys, smooth operators if you will, see themselves through rose-colored glasses, or maybe it's through the glass of their fancy Stella Artois beer glass. After all, it must take one heck of a man to pull off drinking beer from that kind of beer 'mug'.
Moving on....
These lonely, dateless guys have dolled up their fresh-from-the-course tans, with a shower and shave. They've doused on a few splashes of good cologne (you mean to say that Polo isn't popular anymore?), trimmed and buffed their nails, lightly spritzed a little holding spray on their wispy, silvering hair and then gotten dressed in what they believe to be their most flattering polyester pants, shiny tasseled shoes and a pink button-down dress shirt, notably unbuttoned one more button than should be necessary for a simple evening out with the guys. Plus, this one extra button now shows the tpasty white skin below the tan line from the polo shirt worn earlier that afternoon.
They meet up at the pub, making sure they are sitting at one of the tall bar tables. This ensures that they have the best view of the delectables at the bar, as well as first dibs on the pretty dames coming in the front door.
They are all present so they begin to hound the waitress, who of course, is on to them already since she waited on them during last week's Ladies' Night. She is patient with them, giving them her smile that says, "I will put up with your comments and remarks, but if you think about touching my ass..." The guys know this as they actually tried that move last week.
They keep their sites set on a group of ladies who look as if they have just come from a business meeting. The ladies are dressed in tight pencil skirts, high heels, pretty, frilly blouses that have had a few buttons undone after a long, stressful day at work. Their hair and make-up are immaculate. The trollers begin jabbing each others' ribs with their elbows, motioning towards the group of beauties. The girls look so classy sipping their martinis and eating the stuffed olives off the toothpicks.
The old farts can't believe their good fortune when one of the ladies slowly turns her head to survey her male counterparts who have filled the bar on this mid-summer session of Ladies' Night. Her eyes land on the group of trollers sitting at the ultra-hip tall bar table, puffing their cigars and talking hunched over their glasses of Glenfiddich scotch, discussing what seems to be the excess profits they've encountered through the stock market that day.
What's this? She's smiling. And then she waives. The trollers see her elbow her friend. She says something and her friend looks over as well and smiles. The trollers are now smiling ferociously, snickering in a half-grunt-half-chuckle. If these trollers were actually bulls, they would be stomping their feet and snorting before the full-on charge towards the shiny red muletas.
Now the guys are in real trouble. They don't realize it yet, but they are. The two girls are making their way across the crowded pub towards them. The trollers are sweating bullets, giving their faces a pasty, shiny sheen and their thin combed over hair a stringy quality. Their pick-up line repertoire is full, practiced and ready to launch.
One of the trollers sits up a bit straighter. He has stopped smiling. He spreads his arms out slowly and places his hands on the arms of the two buddies that are on either side of him. They in turn, quiet their sniggering and look at him. He seems to be speechless. He is slightly pale and for a very minute space of time they believe he may be experiencing cardiac arrest. That's when he signals towards the lovely ladies and manages to croak out "Christ Harry! That's your daughter!".
To the objective observing eye the demeanor of the trollers abruptly and visibly physically changes. They are now all sitting up a bit straighter, putting on the air of 'just relaxing a little with the guys before heading home to watch the ten o'clock news'.
The girls have finally reached the table. "Mr. Richards! It's so good to see you again." Mr. Richards hasn't seen his daughter's friend since she and his daughter were in highschool together - four short years ago. "Dad, what are you doing here?"
"Uh... uh..." He's thankful the pub is loud enough to drown out his nervous stuttering.
"You remember Tracy, my friend?"
"Uh... Lovely to see you again Tracy." Poor Mr. Richards, part-time troller, has been found out. His mouth has gone dry. All the scotch has now gone through him and is soaking into the pink shirt material under his arms. "The lads and I were just catching a harmless drink before heading home for the evenin'."
Not much to say. At least not much can be thought of by poor Mr. Richards. His aresenal was full to the brim with those damned corny pick-up lines and now, not only are those forgotten, but he has no decent small talk that he can easily conjure from his soggied brain.
The girls say good night and make their way back to the bar to join their girlfriends. The trollers decide to make a hasty exit after leaving several crinkled bills on the table for the tolerant waitress.
The trollers decide in the parking lot that this pub is just a little too out of the way for them to drive to anymore. They decree that next Thursday evening they should try someplace new. It's unanimous. Their cover has been blown and they will never meet at that pub again.
That pub didn't have that many head-turners, anyways.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Thanks for reading... now be honest.