I can't tell you how proud I am of myself for ignoring the possibilities of the phrase "extra-long." Or disappointed. Yeah, disappointed.
Last night I attended yet another professional sporting event in the fine District of Columbia, your nation's capital. I watched the Washington Wizards play the Cleveland Cavaliers, and it was a good time.
What I come to you today about is something specific, which is a little different from your usual Friday Hate.
Usually I rail about something generic, whether it be a group of people, a certain action, or whatever. This time, I come to you to rail about a specific person.
After the Zards game, in which I got pretty drunk there, including double fisting 24-ounce beers for the fourth quarter, since they stop selling them at the start of the fourth.
The Verizon Center, or the Phone Booth as the locals call it, happens to have a bar in one of the corners, and it's a good bar. So after the game, me and my friend decided to wait out the rush to the metro at the bar, and we head in there to watch some non-live basketball, and have a few drinks.
A few drinks quickly turned into a Jager bomb, then another, then I think one more. There might have been shots of Jameson mixed in there also, I can't be sure. And of course, the ever-present Bud Light in all of its drinkable glory was there to wash everything down.
The bar was very crowded. A big Wizards win, combined with a Thursday night, combined with a general love of alcohol in your nation's capital led to a festive mood for all. Lots of people, lots of loundess, good times all around.
But sitting at the bar was one douchebag that didn't seem into all of it. He's surrounded by big guys in LeBron James jerseys, and hot chicks ordering fancy shooters, and he's sitting at the bar, calmly, not watching TV, but reading while chaos reigns all around him.
This guy was a douchebag. I could tell right away, for reasons I'll soon get into. But first, take a look at him, and see if you can't spot some of the tell-tale signs of prickdom.
First of all, you can't see the title of the book he's reading, so let me enlighten you.
Eros and Magic in the Renaissance.
I shit you not.
He is reading this book at 11:30 in a crowded sports bar filled with rabid basketball fans in Washington, D.C. What a fucking tool.
Note the rings he's wearing. A thumb ring. Do you know anybody who isn't a complete fuckstick that would wear a thumb ring?
(Actually, I do know one. He wears a thumb ring, but his last name is Scorpio, and with a last name as awesome as that, you can wear whatever the fuck you want.)
Check out the other ring, a copper spiral on his index finger. This guy is a grade-A fuckstain, and he wants everyone to know it.
The picture doesn't do his hair justice, but it's that greasy, slicked back look of someone who reads Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan fiction. The drunker I got, the more pissed off I got at this dude.
Luckily he left before we took the second round of Jager bombs, because I was so ready to ask him something obnoxious.
But alas, I didn't. But I think I already made an ass out of myself the last time I was in D.C., so I figured I'm good for now.
So i got talking to some folks about the NBA, because there is nothing I like more than to talk basketball with people when I'm drunk.
Quick side note: Apparently the new slang term for African-Americans is "presidents." I hear it from good sources that it will soon replace the N-word as one of the more insulting racial epithets out there. You heard it here first.
Before I knew it, time had slipped away, and it was 12:30. It was then and only then that we thought it prudent to ask when the Metro closes.
The answer? Midnight.
Fuck.
Trapped in D.C. After dark.
Double fuck. (which also happens to be my favorite genre of porn)
So I call my roommate, who comes through in the clutch like Larry Bird (as long as we're sticking with the basketball theme).
A final note:
While looking for the picture I took of the prick reading, I found another photo, this one:
Looks like something pretty standard right? A mostly full bottle of Bud Light, sitting on a counter of some sort.So, like I tend to do after several drunken nights, I played detective this morning. Fired up the ol' Photoshop at work, and did some sleuthing.
Clue #1: The shadow is my head, so I am obviously standing over the bottle, and the light s coming from behind me, meaning I'm not at the actual bar, because bars don't rest against a wall. Since it is florescent light, I am inside.
Clue #2: The surface seems to be white and shiny. There appears to be a line of caulk between the wall and the surface, suggesting an atmosphere involving moisture. Interesting.
Clue #3: The silver metal fixtures at the bottom left corner and top of the photo. They look like they could be connected in an L-shape. Hmmm...
My powers of deduction lead me to believe that it is a plumbing fixture of some sort. Since I am standing, it would have to be.......a urinal?
And that's when it all came flooding back. Where I was, why I took a picture of a seemingly innocent Bud Light bottle, and my general failure as a member of the human race.
I remember going to the bathroom. And when I got to the urinal, there was an empty bottle of Bud Light on top.
By now, you're probably saying to yourself, "but the bottle in the picture is full."
Right. Because I filled it. With my piss.
I don't know why, but for some reason, I remember thinking that it would be the funniest thing in the world to piss in this bottle, and leave it on top of the urinal. Like someone's just going to come by, see a full beer on a urinal (which is very, very warm), and just drink it.
I am a disgusting human being.
No one denies this.
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