I can't be held responsible for the things I say or write...

9.25.2007

That's mad material thrown down the drain (son)

That's what I keep thinking every time I open my mouth. In fact, that's why I went on my hiatus last year for a pretty long time....just got tired of telling the same stories over and over again...figured the people who read this also heard that, so who pays attention to both, right? But maybe not anymore, as I am a worldwide powerhouse now. It's true. Go to www.thislinklikelydoesntexist.com and you'll find out.

So a funny question was asked on a comment to my last post. It read:

"QP Live, Will these shenanigans end when the doctor comes back to DC?"

To that I have 2 responses:

1. Hey a-hole, you read this enough to know the pseudonyms, so use them. a-hole

2. Naturally. It's just what I do naturally at this point and time. Case in point:

Nationals game, this past Friday night. After last weeks performance, all I really wanted to do was drink at the game...and drink I did. At no point was I not double fisting. At one point, I was handling the rare triple fist. It was glorious. Many asked if this was an expensive night...obviously. But it was bonus day, so I spent a nice portion of it on King Lights. It started out promising, but quickly faded once the old man sitting next to me called me out on double fisting in the top of the second inning. He was laughing at me, so I didn't feel too bad. We moved sections shortly thereafter to sit next to the 45 Philly fans who had come down to support their team during the playoff race. At no point did they quiet down, but they were pretty good spirited. One kid was so hammered that the event staff pulled him out and made him sit in the front row by himself. Due to our close proximity to DC Jail, I started chanting, "Prison Rape, Prison Rape" over and over again....yes, I know but I was double fisting, what do you expect.

What I didn't expect was to see this 5'4 110 pound blond Philly fan stare right at me like I was the devil...she thought I was chanting this at her and was heated. I calmly explained that it was directed at her with the old, "Oh damn. No, not you. Sorry about that." She was amazingly ok with it. I was shocked, but relieved. Anyway, that kid sat there and smoked for a few innings and woke up a bit. It was pretty funny.

So that was pretty much the last thing I remember about the game. At some point, we stumbled out and onto the metro and into the night in Adams Morgan. I bought a beer at the bar, drank a few sips, gave it away and left the bar by jumping over the fence around the outside patio. It was time to go. Two-Pump Charlie tried to get me to come back by chasing me down as I was trying to get into the doctors car, so we ran around the car a few times until I body checked him into traffic, jumped in the car and then we took off. I think he was safe.

Case in point #2:

Sunday afternoon, back at the same bar for Sunday football. Due to practice, I could only make the last 3 quarters of the 4 pm games. That would prove to be plenty of time to do what I do. So we're there, enjoying some tasty high life pitchers and hanging out with some of the people we befriended last week. High Sock Ho was not there. Our new friends are both Cowboy fans and declare that the Cowboys will score at least 30 points on the Bears that night...in Chicago. Naturally, I figure there is no possible chance this will happen and I let him know how confident I am with my assumption with the following:

"I'm so confident that the Cowboys won't score 30 that I'll bet my fiancé's anal virginity on it."

The first reaction to everyone was laughter...then this kid debated the bet, debated further and debated longer and came back with, "I have nothing that can match that."

It's a good thing too, because the Cowboys scored 34 points....that would have hurt. The doctor more than me, but still...good thing he didn't put anything on the line otherwise we'd have a running dialog of my life as a single man.

So I don't think I'll be changing too much now that she is back in town...but I guess that's ultimately up to someone not me to decide.

5 Comments:

Blogger Tim said...

No No dont stop the rockin

10:19 AM

 
Blogger Ben said...

It's a stupid pseudonym and I will not use it.

12:35 PM

 
Blogger Chris Jamal said...

man, these stories are like the QP live that I first befriended. Way back before the doctor took away his testicles and replaced them with that metaphorical purse he calls being engaged. what does that even mean?

6:23 PM

 
Blogger Beef Supreme said...

Ben, you can at least use Two-Pump Charlie. In no sense is that less than genius.

It also reminds me of my first year of club ultimate in DC and how the guys would challenge me to jump (literally) on random girls at tournaments and see how many pumps I could get in before being beaten down (I know what you're thinking and yes by the girl). I think the best offer I ever got was a "buck twenty-five a pump!"

10:03 AM

 
Blogger David said...

I'm too cool to check the WAKA website. But I'm cool enough to read this regularly. Can I get an update on the team?
Or at least some stories about how the doctor's mastery of anatomy effects your daily life. Your choice.

4:46 PM

 

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