HICKS DON'T MIX WITH POLITICS

well, well, well, we certainly have our fair share of baseball fans, don't we? good for us! and speaking of superfans, i should respond to J's comments about my 'hardcore' ranking among the Sons of Sam Horn, therefore i will tell you a sunny little story about how i came thiiiis close (holds forefinger and thumb dramatically close together) to strangling a bartender and punching a fat chick in the face over my BoSox.

ahem...

in light of the recent bout of thievery in my life, i feel like i'm doing a pretty good job of taking things in stride, you know, maintaining a calm and positive outlook on life in general, and that's essentially the mood i brought with me to the bar two nights ago. the Sox game was playing on one of the television screens inside, and i, being of casual demeanor at the time, nonchalantly dropped a 'go sox!' while waiting for the bartender to serve me my beer.

not noticing the two 'ladies' at the end of the bar decked out in full derek jeter regalia (hats, jerseys, wrist bands... honestly, who fucking does that?). because that's always a good situation: 30 year old drunk bitches at a dive bar on a weeknight wearing yankee uniforms in california. however, much to my horror, the bartender (Mr. A's fan... hometown team at least, so you know... good for him), who couldn't have been much older than i am, is trying to impress these two bar skanks by ripping on me to my face.

keep in mind, all i've said is 'go sox,' a phrase that, in my mind at least, doesn't warrant the ensuing audio vomit that spewed out of 'Sra. Fake 'n Bake', but there i stood--a man, solid and silent as a stone--listening to these three talk shit about me (and the Red Sox) while i waited to be served.

despite this, the very refinement of abuse, i maintain my cool because, as my ol' pappy used to say, never antagonize the people who touch your food, which in this case seems like wise advice, because mr. bartender sure looks like the kind of guy who would serve me a piping hot jizz-burger while flashing me a big, fat, shit-eating grin.

...and the fucking Red Sox can't even beat fucking TEXAS!... she spews... Rosie O'Donnell begins laughing/wheezing/jiggling to her left...

i complete the beer-for-cash transaction, which liberates me from the semen/spit/stinkpalm threat from the bartender, and smile at Mr. Trot Nixon who has just blessed me with a two-run homer in the seventh, with enough eerie good timing to make me wonder what great deeds i'd done in my former life. smugly, i turn to the withered souls of my new bar-skank friends and thank them for perpetuating that famous yankee fan stereotype.

chuckles and lunchbox literally erupt with contempt for my retort. wild-eyed, foaming at the mouth, bubbling crimson into their knotted, fleshy faces, they respond with the kind of last-resort scramblings of a deposed 4th grade bully: they command me to 'settle the fuck down, dude,' 'yea, you need to calm the fuck down.' i felt their request was a little out of place, considering the constant stream of slurred insults that they've allowed to disgourge from their loose, drooping jowls.

though i did detect a faint hint of acrid smoke circling my noggin as my motherboard, deep inside my brain, shorted out, and sparks popped and fizzled inside the works, because no matter how calm you are, no matter how stoic, how piously dispassionate a human being you are, every one of us will transform into the fucking incredible hulk when someone tells you to chill out (or 'dude, don't be so defensive,' for that matter).

a silent tremor worked its way up my spine, and my teeth ground themselves to a deadlock in my jaw. what i really wanted to say was: look a'hear you decrepit vulture whore, fake tans are for highschool girls, and you don't look like you've seen the inside of a highshool since you cruised prom night 19 fucking 70 in your brother's rusted-out firebird, and the only reason Tons-O-Fun over there hangs out with you is because deep-down-inside she's crossing her fingers that she can maybe score with the poor sucker wingman of the drunk burnouts who hit on you at this-here dive bar on this-here weeknight but, gee-whizz, if he's not really that into women who sweat gravy and buffalo sauce, she might be shit out of luck. and as for Captain Hero behind the bar over there, i'm going to go ahead and give him the benefit of the doubt since he's bartending a dive at 5pm on a wednesday and, wild guess, he's not working himself through school. and since he's trying to impress the two of you, i'm thinking he really doesn't have that much to offer the human race besides the used motorcycle parts he sells on Craig's List. so boo-fucking-hoo. go sox.

what i did say was nothing. because, as my ol' pappy used to say, never antagonize the people who touch your food.

so i sat down with my beer and my well-outbred friends, and when they asked me if was pissed at how rude the bartender and his ravens had treated me, i reminded them that he's working at a bar on a wednesday afternoon and trying to impress two women who could just as easily have their own 30 minutes of a TLC special on 'miracles of modern medicine'.... the first 30, not the last 30 where a team of 14 seasoned surgeons perform a long series of aggressive and experimental reconstructive surgery to correct some of god's more egregious boo-boos...

then i thought of how i would never see $8.50 an hour (plus 5 bucks or so in tips) as a 'career,' and how i would never have to rip on a paying customer so that some she-beast would throw me a mercy fuck.

and the Sox tipped the Rangers 2-1 that day.

in the end, life is all-around pretty good. agreed?

and while i'm on the subject of baseball, let's all give Reckless an e-pat on the back for being such a good sport when we rip on the White Sox (though he's not really a baseball fan... just a blue-collar working man from the south side.... well, a high-priced lawyer, but irony can be just as warm and cheerful as anything else, nes pas?), and a damn sexy bitch at that. while you're at it, click on the 'Reckless' link to the right of the screen, and leave some words of encouragement on his blog because, frankly, he's much more entertaining than i am. support Nelio, too, in his resurrection. Reg, baby, i sense only weak vital signs from your blog. don't tell me i'm the only one who wanted to kick a little ass this week, you wild, beautiful, superfreaky ballbreaker, you.

go sox, motherfuckers!