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My friend Ben has a theory that you could put a Wal-Mart smack dab in the middle of Beverly Hills and in less than 24 hours, the place would be swarmed with low-rent, ghetto people. “It’s like they have some kind of homing beacon that just directs them to Wal-Marts everywhere,” he said. After my last trip to the Super Wal-Mart in New Tampa (better smelling and more expensive than Old Tampa), I gotta say he’s right.
Underage girls just don’t care anymore. It used to be they tried to be slick. But now, they sneak into these bars and when you confront them as to their age, they laugh and say, “Well my ID says I’m 21.” Come on girls. I like this place and want it to stay open. At least live the lie a little.
Dating a bartender is awesome because you always get that coveted “I don’t have to leave the bar until she does” status. Which can easily lead to the “sex in the back room drunk on free beer” status. And I think that’s what all men are going for.
The other day I heard the following from two announcers while watching Archery (of all the damn things) at The Local Pub:
Announcer1: Where do archers register for their wedding?
Announcer2: Target, of course… Wow, I feel a little ashamed having participated in that joke.
Devin and Me: You should.
I tried to watch the last round of the British open. I think I deserve a golf clap. At the end of the round, the announcer told me that I had witnessed one of the rarest events in golf history. He kept going on about Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus and some guy named Bobby Jones and then he said something to the effect of “Maybe once every fifty years a player who is this talented comes along.” And as I sipped my beer, I thought, “Wow, it’s amazing how little I care.”
Right now, residents on the Gulf Coast are suffering from Red Tide (read: bunch of dead fish washing up on certain coastlines). I love Red Tide because it’s the one time of year that you feel bad for all those poor people with beachfront property. Suckers.
And finally, because this makes no sense and I feel no obligation to fluidity today, I leave you with the following line, which I read on a bathroom stall at Skipper’s Smoke House:
“No matter how much you love her, no matter how great you think she is, somebody, somewhere is sick of her shit.”