Yesterday afternoon I hurredly fired off some bullshit emails to give my collegues the impression that I was still toiling away at some bullshit task.
I threw on some rags, kissed my daughter on the cheek, and jumped in the ride.
Detination: the city
Agenda: Watch the Monday Night Football doubleheader and get absolutely blitzed.
It didn't matter where or with who. As long as the games are shown and drinks keep coming, I'll be happy. Since I don't get out much any more I have to make the most each precious opportunity --to keep sane.
I get ahold of G and my new drinking buddy S. Although S whines about being broke and having to save up for an upcoming bachelor party, he agrees to "have a drink or two". G is always down. Don't these fuckers understand Monday night in a bar watching football while throwing down Jamesons and spitting game at hoes represents the last vestige of youth and irresponsibility for me??
We begin the evening at the Chieftain, our safe home bar I guess. We order pitchers of their special, Pilsner Urquell (with a free order of wings) and get down to business. Eating, drinking, watching football, whispering sweet nothings about nasty sex acts to the any half-decent woman who wants to listen... The place is filled with squares from the OracleWorld conference so our increasingly rambunctious behavior induces non-approving glances from many patrons. We decide we need to go somewhere a little edgier.
Boo yah... we end up at Rich's 93 hanging amongst a plethora of San Francisco's shadiest hustlers and twenty dollar whores. Now that's more like it --not a single OracleWorld tote bag in sight. While G plays in his weekly pool league in the rear of the bar, S and I try to go pint for pint. Newcastle's the poison tonight. I curse as I realize I just lost a few c-notes due to Joe Horn's idiot play near the end zone (while stretch to get the ball over the plane of the goal line he fumbles the ball which results in a touch back) --in effect keeping the total under 43.5 (I had the over). Fuck betting on NFL.
I notice I'm always about half a pint ahead of S. This is due mainly to the fact he can't stop recounting stories about his deprived childhood in upstate New York. All those summers spent in Canadian hockey camps must of taught him to drink like a pussy too. I call him out. He obliges and downs his beer grudgingly. After a few pints and a few more tales of youthful disobedience the fucker decides to call me out.
"You think you're a tough guy?", he challenges. Not being accustomed to hanging with slow drinking white boys, I answer back. "Hellz jeah, whats up??", I accept his challenge. He pushes his forearm again mine and in between he places a lit cigarette. Damn.. these crackers are crazy. I'm lit from the drink and feel as if I could beat the shit out of anyone.. plus my body is almost numb from it. I feel a warm sensation burning the hairs on my arm.. no biggie. The damn thing burns down to the filter. We both laugh and agree that wasn't shit.. just a stupid drunk game.
The night comes to a close, I stumble towards to BART station and some how get home in one piece. I drink half a gallon of gatorade and pass out on the couch.
This morning I'm staring at my arm in disbelief. It looks as if someone bit a off quarter-sized chunk of my forearm. Disgusting. It even obvious that it came from a fucking stogie. Looks like I'll be wearing long sleeves the next month or so. Never again.