Rusty’s Diary, Vol. 1: The Night I Fought a Ceiling Fan (And Lost)

Let me set the scene.

It was a Tuesday night, which, as all seasoned degenerates know, is when the truly weird stuff goes down. The bar was slow.

The jukebox was halfway through my “Songs To Cry Into Your Mozzarella Sticks To” playlist (heavy on Reba, light on apologies). I had just claimed my rightful seat—the third stool from the left, slightly crooked, smells like regret and old nacho cheese. My throne.

That’s when I saw it. A fan. On the ceiling. Spinning. Mocking me.

Now listen, I’ve coexisted peacefully with many ceiling fans in my time. But this one? This one had a death wish. It spun just a little too smug. Like it knew something. Like it had seen things. Maybe even—maybe even judged my drink order.

I don’t know what came over me. One minute I was sipping a Rusty Nailbomb (yes, on purpose), the next I was scaling the jukebox with the agility of a raccoon possessed by the ghost of Evel Knievel.

People started cheering. Someone shouted, “LET HIM COOK!” Which was weird, because I was clearly mid-climb and had no culinary intentions.

I reached the top, locked eyes with the fan, and whispered,

“You spin your last spin, you capitalist wind machine.”

Then I jumped.

Now, I thought I was gonna land gracefully on the bar, swat the fan like a badass, and win the admiration of every sad soul drinking light beer that night.

Instead, I missed by a foot, ricocheted off the neon PBR sign, and landed directly in a bowl of stale popcorn. It was not a soft bowl.

I blacked out somewhere between the second bounce and the third pity shot poured in my honor. Woke up the next morning with a coaster stuck to my cheek that said,

“Tip your bartender… and maybe Rusty too.”

Anyway, the fan’s still up there. Still spinning. Still judging. But so am I.

And I’ll be back Next time, with a ladder.

—Rusty B. Resident Mascot, Vibe Curator, Proud Loser of One Fight to a Fan

P.S. If anyone sees my fanny pack with three Slim Jims, a lighter shaped like a dolphin, and half a Hot Pocket in it… tell it I miss it.