Invasion of the Cellphone People, Part I: The Devine Rights of Mall Chicks

I wish I had a friend who could puke at the drop of a hat. A talent like that could come in handy in so many situations.

Case in point. I went to a club to hear some acoustic music, a woman I had written about named Gayle Ritt, with a couple other acts on the bill.

Well opening for her was a wispy three-piece named Arlum, real coffee house stuff, college boys who listened to their parents Cat Stevens records and maybe, to give them hipster props, some Nick Drake for depressive good measure.

They said they were from the South Side, which brings forth mullet memories of Styx, REO Speedwagon and AC/DC. So my guess is they are from Orland Park or maybe Palos, well-off south suburbs.

I say this because of their sound and the people who trekked the 60 miles or so to see them: a table full of Trixies who sat behind us, dressed in their Scooby Doo finest, their hip-hugging pants covering asses you can tell are on their way to being, to be polite, Rubenesque.

But being polite wasn’t on their agenda. The little princesses wouldn’t shut up.

Maybe they thought they were at one of those restaurants where they have singers AND saganaki -- or at a Shakey’s pizza, if they still exist.

We were sitting at the table closest to the stage, and the motor mouths were right behind us, chattering a din of dumbness, white noise in so many ways.

Finally, I turn around, tap one of them on the knee to get her attention and tell then to PLEASE SHUT UP.

Playing good cop and bad cop (and maybe wanting to seem a little nuts but nice) I apologize for being rude, for startling the one I touched, and for being so uncool, then turned around to watch and listen.

Well, the one I touched gets another bottle of Bud Lite in her, and a few songs later comes up to our table and threatens so sue me if “I ever fucking touch her again.”

That’s when I could tell they were from Orland Park or thereabouts, somewhere where rich white kids can can do no wrong -- and threaten to get a lawyer instead of getting some lunkhead to beat the shit out of you.

Since there was no threat of bodily harm (to me or them) I tell Ms. Oppressed “if you all would a kept your Goddamn mouths’ shut, nothing would have transpired in the first place.”

Using anger management techniques, I get up and go to the back of the room and talk to the bouncer to cover my ass, which, as I don’t where lo-rise jeans, is usually amply covered anyway.

The bouncer was cool about it. But he didn’t go tell the chatty Kathies to move to the back of the hall if they want to talk, either.

Chalk up another victory for the cellphone people.

Which is when I got the idea for having a puke buddy. Why be nice to jerks, when you can have an offensive tackle turn around and vomit in their general direction?
Act like it’s some sort of weird malady brought on by their presence. Are they wearing cheap perfume? Smoking? Did they spill Bud Lite? He’s allergic to it, maybe some got on him.

Then he could offer to sell them T-shirts he happens to keep on hand for such occasions: Rude people make me puke, they say.