Happy Hour Premiere

I'm not invited to happy hours in my office because I'm two standard deviations higher than the median age. Things change quickly though. I accidentally pulled a co-worker's email off the printer with the subject line, "Don't invite Corporate Shmo to the happy hour". Denial is such an ugly thing. I thought everyone in the group deserved a morale boost so I decided to come along.

After driving through the unusually crowded streets of Washington DC, I realized my happy hour directions were useless. I decided to trust my instincts and follow the spotlights that were shining into the sky a few blocks away. That's gotta' be the place. Upon finding the source of the light I realized this happy hour was da' bomb.

Limos everywhere, quarantined paparazzi, and screaming teenagers in bleacher seats. Why had I missed so many of these before? Valet parking was the only option so I pulled my Hyundai Santa Fe right in front of the bar. Someone quickly opened my door and the first thing my feet hit were a red carpet. Flashes of light bathed me while I headed to the entrance labeled "The Guardian". The lights stopped as quickly as they started with mutterings of "It's not him". All the photographers behind the velvet rope stopped to change the batteries in their camera.

What the hell kinda' bar is this?

That's when things started to get a little weird. I walked into the bar and it strangely resembled a theater. Movie posters, popcorn stands, ticket attendants, the works. On top of that, Kevin Costner and that kid who dates that girl from St. Elmo's Fire were standing next to a movie poster. Here's the crazy part, their own photos were in the movie poster labeled The Guardian which is the same name as the bar. What are the chances?

I wasn't about to miss rubbing elbows with a celebrity. I approached that girl from St. Elmo's Fire and grabbed her hand to press the flesh. In a move straight out of G.I. Jane she used my own motion against me and twisted my wrist. I immediately dropped to my knees and was given the wood shampoo by two of her actual guardians. Needless to say, it was pretty cool.

Watch it handsy!

Looking like a tomato with an eyeball, I was aggressively escorted out the same way I came in. I think Mr. Costner felt bad because he paid for my ambulance to the hospital. Some celebs are all talk and others step up to the plate. I salute you Kevin, you totally didn't have to pay for my ride.

While receiving stitches in my head I reviewed the tattered, bloodied happy hour email and realized I read the address wrong. All is not lost, I found a new celebrity bar for our next happy hour. My co-workers are going to love me.