At this crappy beach bar is where we met a man. Probably in the back half of his 30’s, he latched onto to us after the other table of female Steeler fans to him to get the fuck away. In our 30 minutes of interaction he got disturbingly and uncomfortably drunk. Here’s the abbreviated version of what was conversed:
Are you guy fucking redskins fans or not, youre not are you. OK maybe you are.I am the biggest fan in here, watch this play because Crooley will catch a touchdown on this play. We’re going to get a safety if we can sack the other guy. That girl in the Roethlisberger jersey is looking at me. I’m married. If the redskins get more than f fumbles they usually win. You’re not a real redskins fans. Do you guys like pool cause the place I’m staying has a mini pool table. I didn’t eat all my Clams Casino if you want some. Do you guys have some bud. This is the best bar for ten miles until Hooters. Can I have a ride home later. My wife may not pick me up. Is the game over. What are you guys doing tonight later. Why isn’t the game on. Whats the score again. My kid is a bigger redskins fan than that guy. You guys wants some of these clams because theyre good. If the redskins win I’m going to give that girl over there a hug. She says she’s 33.He disappeared a few minutes into the 3rd quarter and we hoped that his wife did come pick him up. The bar hoped that he was with us because he didn’t pay his tab.
I like to have a good time. I like to go to bars and watch sports. But if I ever go out by myself and eat clams and try to score weed from strangers and flirt with some old hag at 5 on a Saturday, then you have my permission to smother me with my Clint Didier throwback jersey. And if one of the strangers I tried to score bud from sees me passed out the next day at the beach with my kid, I won’t expect either of them to move me when the tide comes in. I don’t deserve it.
*Hair of the dog.