Quite the Character

Apparently, whenever I go dancing in Baltimore, there is some other-worldly force that guides me toward men who are easily described as cartoon characters.

First, there was the leprechaun. He was remarkably short, had messy red hair, and used "fuck" at least three times a sentence. He may not have worn a little green top-hat, and he certainly did not have a pot of gold, but he was legitimately Irish (not yet a US citizen), and fit the stereotype well with his 30-odd cousins and penchant for drinking.

Then, a couple Thursdays ago (Holy Thursday, to be exact), I met a sailor. To be fair, his status as a genuine sailor is questionable, but he was legitimately a mate on a boat and had sailed around the world three times. I didn't get around to questioning him about any bouts with scurvy, but he did inform me that he did not fit the stereotype of a drunken sailor. After all, he explained, someone on the boat must be responsible, and that's hard to do while drunk.
He also, however, described to me his inability to return to his hometown near Charleston, SC because he had an ex-girlfriend there whose dad wanted to kill him. And then he tried to pull down his pants to show me where this man had actually shot him in the ass with buckshot. To which I responded that it's good he lives on a boat, where it's hard to find him.
Finally, despite my neglect in the scurvy-answers category, I did get a chance to ask him if he had an anchor tattoo. To my surprise, he did not - he had a large cross on the back of his arm, instead - but was indeed looking for a good tattoo shop to get his next tattoo, which was to be - you guessed it - the anchor.

Last, but not least, I met a policeman last Saturday. Kind of. A man approached me while dancing and told me that - according to what I could hear - his friends had dared him to ask me to touch his "junk." Of course, I've never been one for touching the genitals of strangers just because they asked, so I argued that he had held up his end of the bargain. He had asked me, after all; the dare wasn't that he must get me to actually do it.
He didn't seem to follow this logic, however, and repeated his request, but this second time, "junk" sounded almost like "gun," so I jokingly placed my hand on his pants pocket. He shook his head and told me to touch higher and - since higher meant farther from his penis - I comfortably obliged. That's when I found out that he had indeed said "gun." He was an undercover police officer and I had just groped his concealed weapon.
Because policemen make me uncomfortable - and because he probably had a good 10 years on me - I did not ask for any more specifics on his job. So, sadly, I cannot venture a guess as to how many times he's been shot nor to whether he frequents Dunkin' Donuts for their coffee or their namesake.

And now, it's Wednesday and I don't have any plans to venture to Magerks until at least the weekend. But perhaps I'll get lucky and meet a millionaire on my next visit! Or a prince!
Oh, the possibilities are endless.