milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Chandler's always known that eventually, he'd get caught. You can only skive off of work to go to a bar so many times before someone notices. He'd just never expected that someone to be the Bar.

He's being put to work, because he keeps ditching work. That's the way he sees it. He's never tended a bar. He's never even waited tables. He's had one job his entire life, and that was statistical anayalsys and data reconfiguration. Still, he goes behind the Bar, and fumbles around, trying to figure out what it is he's meant to be doing. Eventually, he comes up with a plan.

Happy Hour
Apologies in advance for the new guy

SPECIALS

Rum and Coke/Rum and Diet Coke
Chocolate Milk
Coffee

And that exhausts the list of things he can make on his own. Grabbing a Yoo-hoo for himself, he sits back and waits for something to happen.

Fake!Tag: Chandler Bing

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Yeah," Chandler says. "Why? Haven't you?"

"I have," she says. "Its pattern is a little like that of a pine cone, don't you think?"

Something about this woman is very familiar all of a sudden, but Chandler can't seem to place it.

"But where's the 'apple' part come in?"

"Because it's a fruit?" she says, archly.

Urquhart's patience with idiots, morons, and dumb babblers hasn't increased with the changed gender.

"Well, so are cucumbers," Chandler points out. "And oranges. Limes. And kiwi. "But if anything, the way a pineapple segments, it seems more appropriate to call it some sort of... pinecitrus, doesn't it?"

"Citrus don't have that hard core in the middle," she says. "And they're much juicier."

"Well, excuse me," Chandler says. "So, what do you do, then? You some sort of fruit expert or something?"

"I'm rich," she says. "Fruit are just a hobby."

It's true, too. It only leaves out the three or five most pertinent facts.

"Is," Chandler corrects, incorrectly. "Fruit is just a hobby."

"What?" she asks. "Fruits are a hobby."

"That works too," he says. "You need anything else?"

"No," she says. "It's a nice drink. Thanks."

He can go, if he wants to.

He's more interested in figuring out where he knows this woman from. The fact that he's naturally attracted to strong, bossy women has nothing to do with it. Nothing whatsoever.

"Have you ever been to New York?" he asks.

"No," she says. "I've heard stories about it" -- seen the name on a globe -- "of course, but I haven't been there. Why?"

"Hmm..." He takes a moment to think. "It just seems like we've met somewhere before. Like I know you from somewhere."

Which is funny, because he doesn't recognise her at all.

"Are there many tall, brusque blondes in New York?" she asks.

Oh yes, Urquhart has no illusion about how his female incarnation must appear to people.

"There are all sorts of women in New York," Chandler says. "About half a million of them, in fact."

"Wow. Lucky man," she says. Smirking.

The smirk has a lot of teeth in.

"And every one of them has rejected me," Chandler adds.

Well, not every one of them. But most.

She laughs. "How many do you go through in a day?" she chuckles. "Sixty rejections?"

Ouch.

"Well, I wasn't trying to quantify it or anything."

"It's a simple equation," she says. "Half a million women. How long you had since you started to get interested in them. 365 days in a year. It all adds up."

"Are you trying to make me feel about this big?" Chandler asks, holding his fingers about an inch apart. "Because you're doing a real swell job at it."

"That small?" she grins.

There's a lot of innuendo in those two simple words.

Chandler flails slightly as he moves his hands back down to his sides.

"No," he insists. "They actually say that it's from the tip of your thumb to the tip of your index finger."

He holds his hand out in an "L" shape to emphasise.