or…Why it’s good to be a regular at your hometown sports bar. When you walk in so you can catch the hockey game & dinner, before you can even find your bartender in the crowd, there is a pint of Guinness at your elbow, AND despite the fact that it is Sunday during NFL season, they get the Caps game on one of the TV’s for you. Even better, the Caps managed to pull it out in a shootout tonight.
Speaking of hometown bars, guys, hockey, and all that good stuff - gotta love stupid wingman tricks. Friday night I am at GD’s, decompressing from work, watching the Flyers/Penguins game, soon realizing there is only one other person on my side of the bar watching the game, and he’s standing next to me. (aka Blackhawk for identifications sake.) Soon, we’re talking, watching the game, he’s asking that I please not beat the crap out of him should his team win, (why is that an automatic assumption?) wondering how we’d not managed to run into each other there before as we’re both there often enough, general good bar/hockey/Friday night talk. He mentions how his roommate basically lives there - as in literally does not buy groceries as he is there that often and has leftovers. (At the time when Blackhawk pointed him out he looked vaguely familiar, but now I realize, oh hell yes, I’ve seen him there TONS.)
We’re snickering over the fact that the guy to our left has bought half a dozen fruity monstrosity shots for a group of girls to his left (who are saying WOOOO way too much), when the bartender comes over and says, “Um, FYI, you two have shots coming.” Next thing you know, we’ve got a pair of Goldschlager shots, courtesy of Blackhawk’s roommate… Now, let me tell you, that shit does NOT go well with Guinness. I’m honestly not sure it actually goes well with anything. Why his roomie thought this was an exceptionally good idea is beyond me, but me being me, I had to pop over and ask why he couldn’t have sent something that went with Guinness a little better… Roomie tells me he’ll get me something better when I can prove I can do a fireshot. Oh dear lord. I know a wingman’s job and I can see this from a mile away, and I know what a fireshot is and I don’t want to do one…and I say as much. Good natured posturing ensues, he accuses me of not knowing how to do a fireshot, I explain I certainly do, and that where I come from, this involves dropping a lit match in the shot glass, watching a lovely light display, and chugging. Seems I come from tougher stock than he does, as in his world it’s just dipping your finger in the glass and then setting your finger on fire, and then putting said fire out by licking the liquor off your finger. Well, hells bells, I can do that.
So, I go back over to Blackhawk, laughing my ass off, light my hand on fire 4 times with no adverse effects, the rest of my shot manages to get knocked over in the process (oh, damn!), and Blackhawk pawns his off on a third party. Wingman’s mission not so much accomplished. Ran into roomie tonight (he really does live there) - wanted to be sure he SAW me doing the fireshots - he said he did and was impressed that I’d not lit my entire arm on fire as he had done once… I don’t even want to know how you manage that.
OK, off to bed, another week in which to excel or some such nonsense.
