There are some places in Toronto that makes you feel like you stepped into an episode of Jersey Shore in the sense that the clientele resemble really muscular and over-sized oompa loompas. Instead of enormous lollipops, they clutch really girly cocktails that they hope are offset by their bulging masculinity (I mean their arms, you pervert).

A friend and I made plans to meet for drinks and by the looks of the crowd, we had the misfortune of choosing the Toronto equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Being the alcoholics that we are, we ordered a huge mason jar of blanco sangria but little did we know, it’d be the last drink we’d pay for all night.

Mid-conversation, we get interrupted by a loud thunk made by an impressively large wad of cash being thrown on the table between us accompanied by a significantly LESS impressive oompa loompa-ish guy. We shall call him Tony*.

I not sure whether we humoured Tony because we knew how much joy we’d get out of discussing him later or sheer curiosity as to whether he got into a disagreement with spray tanner. Either way, he alternated between throwing his arms around us and continuously smacking his big, ol’ wad of money on the bar, just in case we had missed it the first time around.

Tony (clearly out of his mind drunk): Let’s get some drinks with this money!
Me (clearly not interested): You better put that money away or I’ll drug you and steal it! If you have so much money, can’t you afford a wallet to put it in?
Tony: No Prada can hold all of this!
Me (messing with him for added entertainment value): Ooooohhhh so your wallet exploded. Why don’t you buy a wheelbarrow for it? Or a man to carry your money around for you? Or a man to push a wheelbarrow with the money in it?
Tony (Not sober enough to comprehend sarcasm…or words): 14 Agavaro shots!!!
Me (worried for my liver): I hope you have 11 other friends to share that with…

It was like taking candy from an orange baby.

Except less guilt because he was practically throwing his money at us and he required very little attention (see: barely sexually harassed us) and even mentioned his girlfriend who was staying in that night. Maybe he was just really nice… but it’s more likely that he was just really drunk.

Later on, another friend joined us and said she was off to the bar to grab a drink. Without a word and barely an introduction, Tony peeled a $20 from his brick of bills and handed it to her then flitted away to socialize with his entourage of macho males who were busy manning his phone.

Yes, he had people who were responsible for texting and answering his phone on his behalf.

I have developed several reasons for why he was making it rain (cash):
1) He had a terminal disease and it was his last night on Earth
2) He had just robbed a bank
3) He didn’t trust banks so carried around all of his money with him
4) He was a drug dealer

His designated driver, who also doubled as his texting flunky revealed that he was actually “A Big Shot Luxury Homes Developer.”

It’s times like this that I wish I could use emojis here. There are no words.

So obviously he was a drug dealer. In any case, keep my glass full of non-roofied margarita and you can be the President of Oompa Loompa Land for all I care.

Verdict: Mr. “Luxury Homes Developer” was an instance when I didn’t mind not possessing a terrifying, conversation-discouraging Bitchface. He was harmless enough and to this day my friend and I get a laugh out of that story.

[Exerpt from the BitchfaceNoBitchface Diaries]