Buffalo, NY—In an over the top voice everybody’s favorite South Buffalonian, Jack Conrad held court among a socially distanced, pandemic appropriate crowd at the Blackthorn on Seneca Street this past weekend. In his unique Conradian way, which produced severe eye rolls and head shakes from a table of nearby ladies, he rambled on about his neighbor being a “complete asshole” for his shoddy snow-removal technique. Like Ralph Kramden speaking to his brothers at the Racoon Lodge, Conrad squawked, “Everybody knows you don’t push the snow up against the house. You throw it in your yard or move it forward until you can throw it in your yard. The guy packs it right up against the foundation. He’s a complete asshole.”
An unidentified lady at the table said, “I used to think Jack was kind of funny. Now, he reminds me of a “Karen”—a “Karen” with a Guinness problem.”
Big laughs followed and another one of the ladies asked, “Why do we need these guys at all?”
As the scene switched to the Brick Oven Bistro on Abbott Road later that night Conrad stood on the foot rail of the bar and adjusted his man parts as if he was at home on his couch watching Judge Judy and retold his hole-in-one story for the millionth time—seventh hole at Caz, a mis-hit a six iron catches the lip of the trap causing his ball to pop up in the air and into the hole as if it was a basketball three pointer. Of course, after telling the story again, Conrad’s laughter was way too loud and went on way too long.
Within earshot was a group of ladies at a table with whom Conrad had history.
One said, “I can’t believe I spent ninth-grade making out with Jack. Almost as bad as making out with him was listening to his shitty Jackson Browne records. What was I thinking?”
“I’m so glad you did,” another said. “I had such a crush on him, but you were always in the way.”
“A third woman jumped in, as Conrad again stood on the foot rail, this time unbunching the underwear that was gathering in his ass, saying, “We’re all making fun of Jack, but none of these other shlubs are any better.”
She then went on to explain how she was seeing a guy at the end of last summer and they went golfing. “He was going to show me how to play,” she said making little air quotes with her fingers. “But then he missed a two-foot putt and lost his mind. So, while he was throwing his clubs in a tree I was having a cool drink and enjoying a beautiful warm day. After he dropped me off, I went inside, poured myself a glass of wine, lit some candles, got out The Thumper and went to town on myself. Afterwards, I watched a dumb movie on the Hallmark Channel and not one person was there to complain about it.”
“Yeah, the hell with these guys, who needs them?” thundered another one of the ladies at the table. “Did you ever see their underwear? None of them know how to wipe their asses. And past forty—forget about a solider standing at attention without a little blue pill.”
One of the women in a funny voice crowed, “They tell us we’re fragile and emotional, but did you see their big crocodile tears when the Bills lost in the playoffs? They were like six-year old’s finding out Santa wasn’t real. Screw these guys.”
Just then, the woman that used to makeout with Conrad in ninth-grade stood up and yelled, “Hey Jack, shut the hell up. No one cares about your lame stories.”
Conrad responded by buying the ladies a round of beers and with a big smile told the bartender, “She totally digs me. We made out all through ninth grade—loves Jackson Browne.”
March is International Women’s History Month, which not only celebrates female asperation and achievement, but also raises the questions about the necessity of men, especially among the women who know Jack Conrad.