By the pool table alone, I count five contenders. Two of them have cool jeans, one guy has a cool hat, one guy has cool glasses and one guy has a cool shirt. From where I'm sitting (on a barstool roughly ten feet away) any of these guys could potentially emerge as a person of interest.
Shit, the guy with the moustache sitting next to me is looking good too. Really, any of these guys would do. It feels like a candy store in here and I'm about to pick-a-mix these fuckers. I can't even decide who I want to eyebang. It's madness!
(This post is dedicated to Cole's, my new favorite dive bar in Chicago where--no joke--every guy was super hot. They should just rename the place Fiancee's because I wanted to marry almost every guy I saw. It was like a short guy convention in there. I briefly considered ripping my e-ticket in half, staying in Chi-town and taking up residence under a corner table while I rotate several husbands like a reverse Big Love.)