Ladies, ladies, ladies I understand that the hobo bag is the newest “hip” thing, but it has a time and a place. And its place is not at a crowed Irish bar on St. Patty’s Day. You see all you really need with you is an ID and credit card, which can be firmly tucked in your back pocket or your bra. Plus if you’re cute or it’s late and the guys have had a lot of Irish Whiskey’s then you don’t even need a credit card, you just need to swallow the bile the guy hitting on you creates in your mouth and say yes to that shot. I hear the more you drink the hotter they get.
Now I get that the walk of shame can be pretty traumatic, but hiding the walk by carrying around some new clothes in your hobo bag isn’t going to mask the look of someone who has just had a drunken tumble. Wear your shankiness with pride, hold that head up high and stop running into me with your big friggin’ bag. Seriously I have a bruise. A real bruise from getting knocked into the table, into my friends and into some random dude lucky enough to be standing beside me, aka “The Path,” because you and your purse are certain you can fit into the sliver of space between me and the guy who looks like a brick wall. Well you can’t fit through there honey, and your purse packed with every necessity you may ever need in case, for goodness sake, this tent collapses is just unnecessary and annoying.
So here’s to you hobo bag creator, for you are the reason I almost got into a fight and now have a bruise on my back and hip. At least it matches the bruise on my ass from all the guys who thought it was okay to grope me as they passes by, but that’s another story.
CW
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