He left, soon after. Not without another 10-minute rant to his girlfriend about the state of his underwear. She, you might imagine, remained stoically silent.
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So then I get to this nice cozy new bar and here he is. THE SAME GUY.
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I've spent roughly 90 minutes of my afternoon near this guy and haven't heard his girlfriend say a single word.
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Turns out: he made up that story because he didn't like the people sitting to his left at the first bar. Except when he told the story there was no way for them to have heard the story. Basically only I and the girlfriend heard the story.
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I learned this at bar no. 2, where he was extolling the virtue of a "starter marriage" in Las Vegas back when he was 28.
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He's 42 now, on marriage no. 2, and telling the fake-poop story as if it should impress his fellow patrons at this second bar.
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No one was impressed. He also told a story about his receding hairline. Which also failed to impress people.
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Sometimes they make whole tv shows about them
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