I live in Brooklyn, and I happen to go to bars in Williamsburg a lot. Why you ask? Because there is always at least one babe there. He may only be straight on the weekends, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.
In all of my Williamsburg bar… moping (hipsters, we don’t “hop”, we nonchalantly smoke a cigarette and act like we really hate being out), I have crossed the same people a good number of times. Some are cool, one looks like the creature from Splice (and she has a boyfriend. How does she have a boyfriend and I don’t?), and one is THAT GUY.
If you have ever gone out in Williamsburg, especially if you’re a girl that is even remotely cute, you’ve met That Guy. You know him, he’s the one that always dresses in seersucker, like he is going to the Hamptons, even in winter. The one with the pocket square permanently fused to his chest. Yea, that one. He’s like 40 years old, 5’7 (sucks to be you), Indian or Middle Eastern, and always has this real shitty beard. He’s the one that will come up to you in the middle of the street and plié his legs like he’s chim-chim-cheroo’ trying to woo you, or like he knows you and start talking about his waterfront apartment. As if I’m really going to get over the fact that you look like you deserve a smack 24/7 just because you have a really nice apartment and cocaine hand delivered to you by a Colombian child that rode a burro bareback from Bogota to Brooklyn.
***I just want to clarify, That Guy is an actual guy. Not a type, but an actual character that I often call the Cancer of Williamsburg. He just won’t go away****
The first time I met That Guy, I was just minding my own business, eating a falafel and staring at butts in skinny jeans, when he decided to lecture me on the *~most exquisite vegan restaurants*~ and something about how I shouldn’t be eating that fried crap. The second time I ran into That Guy, I just made a jab at his masculinity and after a few twists of the knife, he left me alone. Then, this week, I watch him lurk around the front of a Bedford Ave bar, and waltz up to me like we’ve been friends for years. That is when I christened him “That Guy”, somehow he managed to reappear the next night and when I scoffed at him and told him he should really be taking advantage of that $400K penthouse, he pulled a Rich Boy Problems, stomped his feet and told me I was “twisting his life….TWISTING IT!” It was real funny, and I’m still pretty smug about it.
I am sure there is a That Guy in your area, and all your girlfriends are huddled around your macbook pointing at the screen wailing “ITS JERRY! AHAHAHA JERRY IS TOTALLY THAT GUY!“. In which case, don’t forget to leave your house without an extra shot of snark and someone sober enough to remember what he says to you when you insult his pink suit.
Many thanks to The Consumerist for this amazing photo of alt-yuppies.