"Then there was this other guy," Fred continued. "He destroyed his insides from drinking, so he made his wife pour a bottle of vodka up his ass. He died, like, instantly." Wow, this dude was a parade of (possible) urban myths. All I knew was that he was way more entertaining than the Olympics, which kept showing clips from the opening ceremonies over and over.

A couple walked in, she all svelte and exposed belly button, he all designer jeans and an intentionally too-tight T-shirt. Let me guess, I thought: You guys are supposed to be Ibiza.

The polka-dot girl had found a handsome foreigner to flirt with. They say that when you are attracted to someone, you tilt your head to the side and your eyes dilate. A woman might, every so often, touch the man's hand when she is talking. Polka-dot was doing all of these things. With lipstick on her teeth.

The Ibiza guy's back was about six inches away from me, and he leaned back even further to slowly stretch up his arms. His T-shirt rode up, showing his well-formed midsection, and his arm muscles bulged as he let out a yawn. I could smell the gel in his hair. Yes, he was quite a specimen, the living embodiment of a Leni Riefenstahl film. I was frightened yet fascinated.

Everything, it seems, is a show. I wondered howmany times the bartender had told those same stories,for example.

The night wore on, and slowly each country shuffled out of the place. It was time to go. I gave a lil' wave to Coach and Fred, and had one last look at the TV. There they were, hundreds of Chinese people, in perfect coordination.

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