I walked out of the bar and there is a minivan with a daycare ad and phone number #classy So, yesterday I probably depressed the shit out of you with the story of what’s going on in my life. I sincerely apologize, but I had to get that out. Kind of like the post-Thanksgiving dump, this was better off out, than inside of me. Try and get that picture out of your head.
The Muse kept on my ass and told me to stop being a depressed mother fucker (paraphrase) and to go out and do something. So, I decided to make a return to one of my fav places to watch a football game, Charlie's Jewel. They’ve got a big ass thermomoter behind the bar showing you the temp of the kegs, and it always fluctuates between 28 and 30. Yeah. Their beer is cold when it comes out. It’s damn tasty. They also have some pretty decent bar food.
I arrived, ordered my patty melt and fries at the kitchen, then sat at the bar where I ordered a (34 oz) Coke Zero. Yeah, it’s wierd, but I have a thing about hanging at Charlie's Jewel and drinking Coke Zero, OK? I sipped my soda and watched the end of the first half of the Cowboys v Redskins rivalry. As the half ended, I tweeted, “Rex Grossman is a pussy.”
There aren’t many who would argue the validity of that comment, Redskins fans included. (Read on so I can prove my point). The two old-timers sitting next to me at the bar were complaining that the TV was too loud and they couldn’t hear the shitty redneck music they selected on the jukebox. In their defense, I was the one who thought the music was shitty. They thought it was great. At their insistance, the bartender turned down the TV just as Chris Berman was starting the Fastest 3 Minutes segment.
I watched the highlights of Buffalo beating New England and said, “How the fuck does that happen?” Then they showed Detroit beating Minnesota and I said, “Don’t mess with the man named Suh. How’d that feel Donovan?” Next up was my Raiders. “D-Mac in da hizzle,” I shouted to no one in particular. “171 baby. 171.” Finally they showed the Broncos losing to the Titans. I simply laughed out loud and said, “I bet that tasted pretty shitty, huh Elway?” In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t like the Denver Broncos.
I continued to sit at the bar, eating my dinner and sipping Coke Zero. As halftime came to an end, my cell phone rang and I saw it was Drama Queen. The bar was noisy with crappy country music and I only had two bites of patty melt left and a couple gulps of my Coke Zero, so I ignored the call. I quickly finished both the burger and soda, ordered one more Coke Zero, then went outside to call my daughter back.
We talked for a few minutes and as I was ending the call, some guy in his mid-20′s came stumbling out of the bar and walked right up to me, apparently to lean on me. I side-stepped him and returned to my seat to watch football. About 60 seconds later, Drunkie came stumbling back into the bar and sat next to me. Fuck. I was trying to relax and enjoy myself and I didn’t need some drunk-ass douche ruining it.
The bartender turned around and said, “God damn it. I just told you you’re not allowed in here. Get out before I call the cops.” I looked over and noticed dude had a mostly-empty pint of some kind of schnapps on the bar. “And,” the bartender continued. “You can’t bring in your own alcohol. Get out.” He, of course, ignored her and laid his head down on the bar.
“Seriously,” she yelled. “Get the fuck outta here. The bouncer will be here in less than 10 minutes and he won’t be happy to see you here.” My neighbor (who stood maybe 5′ 5″ and weighed a buck twenty on a good day) slurred, “He can’t do shit to me.” At that point all the patrons sitting around me implored the bartender to leave him alone and let the bouncer take care of things. So she did. And so did he.
About six minutes later, some big ass Samoan walks in the back door. This guy was probably 6′ 4″ and weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 325. There wasn’t a drop of fat on this guy and the first thing I noticed is that he seemed to be missing a neck. He walked behind the bar to clock in and the bartender said, “Look who’s back?”
The Samoan looked down my way and I quickly leaned back on my stool, so he would see my neighbor and not think he had to kick my ass. “He’s waiting for you,” someone at the bar said. “He said you can’t do shit to him.” The bouncer (still behind the bar) walked up to the drunk and said, “You need to get out of here. Now.” The lush mumbled something incoherently and the bouncer said, “I’m going to walk around the bar and if you’re still in here when I get there, I’m throwing you out.”
The next thing I saw was a middle finger rise from the bar (he was still laying with his head down) and the Samoan moved faster than I thought he could. This guy had speed and size. It was impressive. The bouncer picked up the guy by his belt (with one hand) and tossed him out the front door. Then he came back in, picked up the bottle, threw it in the trash, grabbed a glass of water, sat down on a stool and said, “Good game?” At that point, I tweeted again. “I just watched some punk ass drunk get physically tossed from a bar. #cool”
I continued to watch the game and noticed that Dallas’ center seemed to have a problem when Tony Romo was in the shotgun. I don’t know if Romo was off the count or if the center was, but there were several snaps where he either put it past Romo, or snapped it before the QB was ready. This intrigued me, so I once again turned to Twitter.
“I guess Romo’s center prefers when Tony is up close, tickling his balls. Dude can’t snap in the ‘gun”
My friend, Patrick, quickly replied. "Benjamin Perhaps he is a snuggle kind of guy. Has trouble without someone up against him”
The Muse (for some reason a Cowboys fan, ugh) tweeted, Benjamin as far as we know, there’s no Don’t ask, Don’t tell policy in football, right? Maybe Tony should ask questions in the huddle”
I told Patrick Yo I didn’t want to know the answer to that and continued to watch the game. I was feeling more like myself than I have in a while and was enjoying the night. Romo threw a ball to literally no one. I mean there was no one from either team within 10 yards of the ball, so I tweeted again. “Nice throw dumbass. #Romo”
Around this time a guy in a Redskins t-shirt walks up to the bar and orders a couple of schooners. He glanced over at me, said hi and asked how I liked the game. “It’s pretty good,” I said. “Rex Grossman is a pussy.” Dude looked at me and replied, “He’s a fuckin’ bitch.” I like this guy.
I then told the ‘Skins fan, “I’m a Raider fan, so I hate Mike Shanahan.” He looked at me with eyes that said he was 90% hammered and replied, “You don’t have to be a Raider fan to hate that guy.” Then he stumbled off with his two schooners of Tecate.
The game was nearly over, but I was in no mood to stop tweeting. After a few dumbass plays by the Cowboys, I tweeted yet again. “I think Romo was smoking the crack pipe before the game. #NFL #Cowboys”
The game ended with the Cowboys on top, mainly because Grossman choked on the last drive. Are you surprised to read that? Probably not. I finished my soda, said good night, walked to my car and tweeted one final time. “I walked out of the bar and there is a minivan with a daycare ad and phone number. #Classy”
P.S. I know this picture of Rex Grossman is from his days in Chicago, but it was too good to pass up. I typed, “Rex Grossman pussy” into Google images and this is what I came up with. Nice, huh?
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