The best remedy for a short temper is a long walk
...Unless that walk is to a gun shop or to cause much destruction. This here is the truth as I saw it, as it was handed down Saturday night, and like Ice Cube once said, "the names have been changed to protect the guilty." Hindsight being what it is, I believe I should have seen it all coming, and if I had Saturday to do over again I would have stayed home by myself and cried because I wasn't cool enough to get invited to Syracuse with the rest of Frankfort; rather I soldiered on, and boy was that a mistake.
Of course the night started out peaceably enough, but don't they all start out that way? A small gathering was had at Timmy's, where we were all subjected to Patriots football, which probably put the crowd into a bad mood right out of the box. I countered by watching Cheaters, which is a phenomenal show, and there was this ugly guy cheating on his incredibly milf-worthy and tall and wonderful wife, but you know what they say, no matter how good looking a girl is... I won't finish it so as not to catch any flak, but you can look it up, it's science. Well, some folks (including Timmy went on down to Tony's) wanted to participate as much and as fully as possible in karayoke so they left, I on the other hand went upstairs to Billy Thumbs' place because Grates was gambling and there were a whole bunch of potential lesbians for me to corrupt. The highlights of my time upstairs will be summed up in list fashion, because that's how I get it done on Wednesday nights:
Karayoke was had at the Lounge, Timmy did a few numbers, the girls from Ilion did a few numbers, (Deanna and Cat Eyes) and Janaysa did a few numbers. The ladies who were nice enough to let me sit with them did not do any numbers, instead Jack and Neek engaged in the vile game of war (of course we all know in war, nobody wins). Alexis kept writing me obscene notes about how much she wanted to fight ho-bags and was curious if she could buy Jenna with cigarettes. Well we couldn't ask Jenna if she could be bought and sold with cigarettes because she was too busy laughing at the two special ladies at the bar enjoying a nice kiss or five, it was a special scene going on, we could clearly see that Jenna did not want to be interrupted, she was laughing so hard she didn't even allow breathing to break her concentration. Yada yada yada after that we walked home, Jack walks really slow, she had borrowed the Undertaker's jacket so I don't blame her, and Grates fell in the parking lot outside of Timmy's.
Which brings us to tonight's feature presentation, our story's protagonist and antagonist will be referred to henceforth as a one Will Hatfield and Randall McCoy, respectively. After Tony's lounge, Mr.'s Hatfield, McCoy and the rest of the nice folks who didn't make the Frankfort traveling team congregated at the fine Sully's Pizzeria, centrally located in downtown Frankfort. Things started off innocently enough, Deanna and Cat eyes were there, DeJo was there making a blathering idiot of himself trying to hit on Cat eyes, and all was cool. That is until McCoy, Hatfield, and I took a booth together to discuss the subtler nuances of Jessica Alba's amazing posterior, or perhaps some other pressing civic issue which concerned citizens discuss when in the public realm, the topic escapes me now. Well anyway, Hatfield was attempting to illustrate a broader point in this discussion, the full expanse of which had previously eluded McCoy; in this fashion Hatfield committed the breach of etiquette that is spilling beer in a man's lap and on his flannel, McCoy ever mindful of the challenges a man faces when accepting a duel countered in like fashion and flipped a domestic lager in Hatfield's general direction. I in my paces, being ever the consummate peace-maker got the hell away from those two dumb-asses as quickly as possible, and the game was afoot. I must editorialize that Hatfield is the much quicker of our two combatants, a strength which McCoy counters with his physical presence, so to speak. Once on their feet, the two pursued a deadly game of cat and mouse which featured a quick volley of near-misses, the weapon of choice being beer haphazardly flung directly from the bottle. Hatfield managed to connect with a glancing spray of Labatt Blue, which was followed up by a retaliatory blast which met a nearby wall with much force, expelled from the bottle of McCoy. Hatfield, ever the tactician, took into account the saying discretion is the better part of valor, and beat a strategic withdrawal to the nether-depths of the Sully's coliseum. McCoy at this point was satisfied with his seeming victory, only to have it dashed away by what turned out to be a flanking maneuver, Hatfield launched a decimating attack from the rear and dumped his remaining ammo down the back of McCoy's neck. A pursuit ensued and nearly ended with a disastrous capturing of Hatfield's forces in the back doorway, none the less Hatfield escaped with his hide and holed up behind the compound (hiding around the corner ready to bash McCoy with a beer bottle). McCoy in turn mustered what little dignity he had left- being covered in bear at this point- and made a rallying cry of the idea that one "never messes with a man's flannel [because] that's messed up," and withdrew to the kitchen to hatch a means of retribution with the now-shamed Confederate General Evans "Stonewall" Jackson.
In the meantime Hatfield made the fatal mistake of being drunk, and forgot that there indeed was a war going on inside and so returned to the battlegrounds, probably because it was cold out, or his scouts could procure no evidence of enemy aggression in the near region (he didn't see McCoy when he looked around). So it came to pass that while Hatfield was busy making a battlefield cell phone call his adversary lunched a sudden, swift, and utterly terrifying broadside attack, guns a-blazing and landed an entire bucket of water all about Hatfield's person. Mr. Hatfield was now soaking wet, and while he could not regain his dry condition, he hoped to muster some modicum of dignity, unfortunately after his first step on the soaked floor Hatfield also failed to regain his balance, and went down on his ass rather harshly.
Game-set-match McCoy, I being the ever intrepid battlefield observer hid behind Joe B and laughed like a little girl until tears were in my eyes. This being said I couldn't see very clearly, but I could hear plain as day what Mr. Hatfield said when he finally got to his feet and undid his pants, "come here [McCoy] so I can piss on you." Very quickly, and thankfully his attempts at a brazen urine attack were thwarted by McCoy going in the opposite direction of his adversary. Hatfield, however badly beaten he may have seemed, could not accept defeat, he knew his next attack would result in a massive ass-whooping if caught, but braved on, ever-intrepid and issued the following edict: "Take a picture of your apartment in your mind, because it's never gonna look the same again." And with that the wet and wild one left, it was our supposition (being Joe B and myself) that Gen. Hatfield was serious, and was currently charging as fast as his two feet could carry him towards Fort McCoy. In the meantime, a clearly shaken General McCoy tried to phone allies in neighboring territories in order to lock up the gates to his lands, but his calls were in vain.
After much deliberation and another beer it was decided that Joe B, McCoy, and I should take the M1-A1 Abrams, err the Silverado overland to Fort McCoy. But we were too late, when we came within sight of the ramparts we saw none other than Hatfield himself standing in the doorway. And maybe it was the So-Co (that's what the kids call it) talking, but I swear I saw the devil on that man's shoulder, along with tons of shit on the floor and in the sink, and on the counter, and not in the 'fridge anymore or in the garbage, where it should have been. At this point J Bird advised Hatfield to beat a hasty retreat or, "run, he's gonna kill you!" A clearly disturbed McCoy approached his now de-virginized compound with bloodlust and alcohol on his breath, "I'm gonna fu[dg]ing kill you [Hatfield]!" was his cry.
The lesson to be gleaned from the following account of what I saw in there is that beer fights are cruel, and unless they involve chesty women with white t-shirts on, there are seldom winners, just a bunch of drunk and soaked losers. There was garbage in the sink, garbage, various condiments and articles of clothing in a pile on the floor, the death stroke however lay emblazoned with Frank's Red Hot Sauce on the counter, the message read [McCoy is gay] and then ran off the side of the counter and onto the cabinents. Thankfully McCoy did not know where Hatfield lived, or he would have driven there, smashed his assault vehicle through the front porch, and probably pooped on the floor (or something like that, I'm just guessing). At this point Joe and I decided to clean up the massacre, with the hope that McCoy would stop bashing the shit out of all the doors and chairs in the place, and also because it stunk like Frank's Red Hot Sauce and garbage. After that I went back to Sully's got my jacket and went home, the end.
Of course the night started out peaceably enough, but don't they all start out that way? A small gathering was had at Timmy's, where we were all subjected to Patriots football, which probably put the crowd into a bad mood right out of the box. I countered by watching Cheaters, which is a phenomenal show, and there was this ugly guy cheating on his incredibly milf-worthy and tall and wonderful wife, but you know what they say, no matter how good looking a girl is... I won't finish it so as not to catch any flak, but you can look it up, it's science. Well, some folks (including Timmy went on down to Tony's) wanted to participate as much and as fully as possible in karayoke so they left, I on the other hand went upstairs to Billy Thumbs' place because Grates was gambling and there were a whole bunch of potential lesbians for me to corrupt. The highlights of my time upstairs will be summed up in list fashion, because that's how I get it done on Wednesday nights:
- I made a mixed drink in a Yoohoo bottle, or some other similarly spent glass bottle; it was Alexis' Southern Comfort, and I reasoned that her mother would make her share with me, so I shared some with myself.
- Alexis didn't mind my taking her So-Co (that's what the kids call it) because I told her that if she didn't, I would tell Conan the Destroyer that she stole his boots (more on that later). She was cooperative
Peep the boots folks, they're the same ones Lex had on.
- Afterwards we decided to leave because Lex countered by suggested I had killed a bear to make my shirt, at one point suggesting I may in fact be a "bear-wearer." At this point I was shocked, and offended, I was hurt, so we left and went to Tony's.
Karayoke was had at the Lounge, Timmy did a few numbers, the girls from Ilion did a few numbers, (Deanna and Cat Eyes) and Janaysa did a few numbers. The ladies who were nice enough to let me sit with them did not do any numbers, instead Jack and Neek engaged in the vile game of war (of course we all know in war, nobody wins). Alexis kept writing me obscene notes about how much she wanted to fight ho-bags and was curious if she could buy Jenna with cigarettes. Well we couldn't ask Jenna if she could be bought and sold with cigarettes because she was too busy laughing at the two special ladies at the bar enjoying a nice kiss or five, it was a special scene going on, we could clearly see that Jenna did not want to be interrupted, she was laughing so hard she didn't even allow breathing to break her concentration. Yada yada yada after that we walked home, Jack walks really slow, she had borrowed the Undertaker's jacket so I don't blame her, and Grates fell in the parking lot outside of Timmy's.
Which brings us to tonight's feature presentation, our story's protagonist and antagonist will be referred to henceforth as a one Will Hatfield and Randall McCoy, respectively. After Tony's lounge, Mr.'s Hatfield, McCoy and the rest of the nice folks who didn't make the Frankfort traveling team congregated at the fine Sully's Pizzeria, centrally located in downtown Frankfort. Things started off innocently enough, Deanna and Cat eyes were there, DeJo was there making a blathering idiot of himself trying to hit on Cat eyes, and all was cool. That is until McCoy, Hatfield, and I took a booth together to discuss the subtler nuances of Jessica Alba's amazing posterior, or perhaps some other pressing civic issue which concerned citizens discuss when in the public realm, the topic escapes me now. Well anyway, Hatfield was attempting to illustrate a broader point in this discussion, the full expanse of which had previously eluded McCoy; in this fashion Hatfield committed the breach of etiquette that is spilling beer in a man's lap and on his flannel, McCoy ever mindful of the challenges a man faces when accepting a duel countered in like fashion and flipped a domestic lager in Hatfield's general direction. I in my paces, being ever the consummate peace-maker got the hell away from those two dumb-asses as quickly as possible, and the game was afoot. I must editorialize that Hatfield is the much quicker of our two combatants, a strength which McCoy counters with his physical presence, so to speak. Once on their feet, the two pursued a deadly game of cat and mouse which featured a quick volley of near-misses, the weapon of choice being beer haphazardly flung directly from the bottle. Hatfield managed to connect with a glancing spray of Labatt Blue, which was followed up by a retaliatory blast which met a nearby wall with much force, expelled from the bottle of McCoy. Hatfield, ever the tactician, took into account the saying discretion is the better part of valor, and beat a strategic withdrawal to the nether-depths of the Sully's coliseum. McCoy at this point was satisfied with his seeming victory, only to have it dashed away by what turned out to be a flanking maneuver, Hatfield launched a decimating attack from the rear and dumped his remaining ammo down the back of McCoy's neck. A pursuit ensued and nearly ended with a disastrous capturing of Hatfield's forces in the back doorway, none the less Hatfield escaped with his hide and holed up behind the compound (hiding around the corner ready to bash McCoy with a beer bottle). McCoy in turn mustered what little dignity he had left- being covered in bear at this point- and made a rallying cry of the idea that one "never messes with a man's flannel [because] that's messed up," and withdrew to the kitchen to hatch a means of retribution with the now-shamed Confederate General Evans "Stonewall" Jackson.
In the meantime Hatfield made the fatal mistake of being drunk, and forgot that there indeed was a war going on inside and so returned to the battlegrounds, probably because it was cold out, or his scouts could procure no evidence of enemy aggression in the near region (he didn't see McCoy when he looked around). So it came to pass that while Hatfield was busy making a battlefield cell phone call his adversary lunched a sudden, swift, and utterly terrifying broadside attack, guns a-blazing and landed an entire bucket of water all about Hatfield's person. Mr. Hatfield was now soaking wet, and while he could not regain his dry condition, he hoped to muster some modicum of dignity, unfortunately after his first step on the soaked floor Hatfield also failed to regain his balance, and went down on his ass rather harshly.
Game-set-match McCoy, I being the ever intrepid battlefield observer hid behind Joe B and laughed like a little girl until tears were in my eyes. This being said I couldn't see very clearly, but I could hear plain as day what Mr. Hatfield said when he finally got to his feet and undid his pants, "come here [McCoy] so I can piss on you." Very quickly, and thankfully his attempts at a brazen urine attack were thwarted by McCoy going in the opposite direction of his adversary. Hatfield, however badly beaten he may have seemed, could not accept defeat, he knew his next attack would result in a massive ass-whooping if caught, but braved on, ever-intrepid and issued the following edict: "Take a picture of your apartment in your mind, because it's never gonna look the same again." And with that the wet and wild one left, it was our supposition (being Joe B and myself) that Gen. Hatfield was serious, and was currently charging as fast as his two feet could carry him towards Fort McCoy. In the meantime, a clearly shaken General McCoy tried to phone allies in neighboring territories in order to lock up the gates to his lands, but his calls were in vain.
After much deliberation and another beer it was decided that Joe B, McCoy, and I should take the M1-A1 Abrams, err the Silverado overland to Fort McCoy. But we were too late, when we came within sight of the ramparts we saw none other than Hatfield himself standing in the doorway. And maybe it was the So-Co (that's what the kids call it) talking, but I swear I saw the devil on that man's shoulder, along with tons of shit on the floor and in the sink, and on the counter, and not in the 'fridge anymore or in the garbage, where it should have been. At this point J Bird advised Hatfield to beat a hasty retreat or, "run, he's gonna kill you!" A clearly disturbed McCoy approached his now de-virginized compound with bloodlust and alcohol on his breath, "I'm gonna fu[dg]ing kill you [Hatfield]!" was his cry.
The lesson to be gleaned from the following account of what I saw in there is that beer fights are cruel, and unless they involve chesty women with white t-shirts on, there are seldom winners, just a bunch of drunk and soaked losers. There was garbage in the sink, garbage, various condiments and articles of clothing in a pile on the floor, the death stroke however lay emblazoned with Frank's Red Hot Sauce on the counter, the message read [McCoy is gay] and then ran off the side of the counter and onto the cabinents. Thankfully McCoy did not know where Hatfield lived, or he would have driven there, smashed his assault vehicle through the front porch, and probably pooped on the floor (or something like that, I'm just guessing). At this point Joe and I decided to clean up the massacre, with the hope that McCoy would stop bashing the shit out of all the doors and chairs in the place, and also because it stunk like Frank's Red Hot Sauce and garbage. After that I went back to Sully's got my jacket and went home, the end.
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