Most bassists are dudes with beards. These beards cover slightly ugly faces that lead these men to become bassists so that women will touch them and potentially even fuck them. But you’re not like that at all.
First of all, you’re a lady. You’re one hell of a lady. You’ve got the uh and the ah and the UH goin’ AWN. To look upon you on the street is to look upon the face of love and to know for one moment peace in all the world. You get a lot of young men quietly staring at you at your shows.
But today things are going to get dicey. A boy is going to ask you to go out and you, against your better judgment, are going to say yes. The boy will be pretty, and he’ll be from another band. Your lead singer, who moves from man to man easily, will say he’s “alright, not great,” and shrug when questioned on his nature. Your guitarist will shrug and your drummer, being a drummer, will not be asked for his opinion and will instead quietly sit at home with his wife and watch NBC sitcoms.
Once you reach the bar you’ll immediately know something is wrong. It’ll be a trendy place, filled with pretty young people avoiding looking at one another. They’ll be drinking small drinks, wearing t-shirts from bands from the seventies and none of them will be talking about a single interesting thing.
“Sup babe,” the young man will nod at you as you enter the bar.
“Hi,” you’ll say, your muscles screaming at you to leave.
“Waddya drinkin’?” he’ll ask mystifyingly. After a few seconds you’ll figure out what he means and nod.
“I guess a beer?” you’ll respond.
He’ll laugh at you as loud as he can.
“You’ll have to be more obscure if you wanna get inside these jeans,” he’ll reply before pointing at his groin, unimpressive beneath a pair of extremely tight pants.
At this point you’ll just lose it and punch him right in the mouth with your big bassy fist. Blood will fly up from between his teeth and he’ll drop to the ground, blood flooding his mouth from the stump of his tongue, foaming up between his teeth.
You’ll walk outside and leave him there on the floor, where the other hipsters will ignore him. You’ll light a cigarette as you walk to your car, your knuckles bleeding from the force of your blow. A young man in a flannel shirt will look at you and nod.
“I’d hate to see the other guy.”
You’ll smile at him, crack the door to your Prius, and roll down your window so you can smoke while you drive.
Congratulations Super Hot Lady Bassist!
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