Clif Bar

Apologies to the couple of you whom I told I would write this yesterday.

Yesterday, in fact, I was in a stupor.

I had just come from Judo, still sore from my Physical Fitness endeavors described previously. However, in Judo, there is no mercy. When I could not do crunch my sensei pinched the hair on my leg. When my abs started spasming, he pinched again.

“Sensei!” I protested, grabbing my chest.

“I know. Pain distract from pain.” He replied.

I don’t know about that, but I did a few more until my abs started spasming again, which finaly resulted in me lying splayed on my back.

When I pulled myself out from practice, having almost forgotten my uniform for the fifth or sixth time, I was supposed to meet friends for dinner, however several obstacles presented themselves.

First off, I was simultaneously exhausted and tweaked from Judo, my body coursing with an adrenaline rush that had prompted another comment by my sensei, this time in Japanese.

“Great, he’s talking in Japanese now.” I said.

The sixty-something-year-old dude I was sparring with explained.

He held his hands open.

“Sensei says this much adrenaline.”

He pinched his fingers.

“This much thinking.”

He was right this time though, and I couldn’t think much of anything when I got out.

The second problem was the big fucking sack of soiled Judo clothes I was dragging around. They felt like a Sisyphean rock as I trudged towards the restaurant.

Why I didn’t just drop it off at home first was the third problem: that I hadn’t eaten in 9 hours and am hypoglycemic, a condition which causes me to become, pretty accurately, an enraged sociopath in search of food.

The final problem was that my friends had failed to request a reservation on a Friday night and so there was no table when we got there.

“Well, they said 25 minutes for the three of us,” One of them told me. “So for all of us now, I don’t know.”

“Shit and I’m hypoglycemic.” I said.

A lanky fuck piped up.

“Oh, I have a Clif Bar.”

I gave him the most disparaging look a sweat-soaked Jew with his glasses halfway-down-his-nose could give and walked out of the restaurant.

We roamed from restaurant to restaurant as I called while walking trying to procure us somewhere to go.

At one place we went we were told “if you come right now we’ll seat you”, only to be turned away at arrival. So I did something I had been trained not to; I cursed out the manager asking him what the fuck was wrong with him or whoever answered the phone. It’s pointless as you will likely never see this person again or go to this restaurant and it accomplishes nothing.

Still, as I said, an enraged sociopath.

When I left, shutting the plastic windbreaker door as hard as I could, we finally found a restaurant, a Korean joint where we could all sit down.

At this point I was  a subject of fascination for my companions.

“Dude, are you OK?” A scruffy one asked.

“Grmgh.” I replied as I scarfed down my beer in three gulps.

We were waiting to be seated, sitting at the bar. Since I was so tense, I thought a beer might me calm me down, but all it did was made me wish the glass was made out of sugar-coated-fudge and that I could just break it on the bar and then eat it, possibly using it first to stab the lanky fuck who once again asked–

“Are you sure about that Clif Bar?”

I grabbed my beer. Slunk up and got right in his face.

“You don’t want to FUCKING know what I am FUCKING going to do to you, if you mention that GODDAM clif bar one more time!”

He laughed.

“Grgmh.” I replied and sat back down.

Dinner came and went, though the appetizers couldn’t come fast enough, but I spent the whole meal spacing out, unable to communicate. I would just stare at this things at a 220-degree angle with my head tillted, peering out the sides of my glasses and periodically seeing how close I could get my hand to the table-mounted candle.

My friends once again asked me if I was ok.

“Uhn.” I replied.

But dinner was done and I got Ice Cream next and this finally calmed me down.

I apologized to the lanky guy about the clif bar.

“Yeah, at first I was serious, but then later I was just fucking with you,” He told me.

He was lucky I was no longer hypoglycemic and full of adrenaline.

Otherwise, I would have shoved that clif bar so far up his ass that it’d rupture his intentestines and spill stomach acid on his vitals.

Then I’d ask him.

“Want a Clif Bar?”

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