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Yesterday I consented to go with Tabby to a bar to watch the Big Game (Broncos v. Chiefs). A whole day off and I got to spend it doing my least two favorite activities in the entire world, with the possible exception of having my fingernails torn off with tweezers. She practically dragged me kicking and screaming, but she started whinging so stridently on the phone that I buckled under her persistence.
In case it isn't obvious, I don't like sports. Any sports. I would say I hate them, but it is closer to the truth that I don't even care enough about them to expend energy on hating them. Watching grown men chasing around a ball is secondary only to the Iron Chef cooking competition in the boredom category to me. The only thing more incomprehensible to me than the sports themselves are the fans. People hemorrhaging over whether or not #15 catches the ball or runs far enough with it. I know this because I have witnessed it firsthand; Tery has actually lost sleep over worrying about her team's performance the following day. Needless to say it is very difficult to summon any kind of sympathy for this. I had a damn lump in my breast and never lost a minute of sleep over it, even at my most anxious.
Tabby wanted to go out to lunch before going to the bar, but I protested that I needed SOMETHING to occupy me there; since I don't drink, food is about the only motivation I would have. It helped that we went to Tery's bar, because she knows how uncomfortable I am and takes extra-special care of me. The game hadn't even started and Tabby was already enraged by the preponderance of red in the place. Tery tried to explain to her that it was a "Chiefs bar" but Tabby refused to believe she was a "minority in DEN-VER," she emphasized loudly to no one in particular. Elaine couldn't care less about the topic either way and contentedly munched her mushroom burger.
The game started, and it was everything I hate about sports events or crowds in general. The screaming, the whooping, the hollering, the asinine chants between rival fans. Ugh. I felt like a biologist observing a completely different and decidedly less intelligent species. Tery was amused that I was the only one in the whole place who sat with my back to the big screen TV. At one point a Broncos fan yelled out, "Good hustle, guys," presumably at the players, as the only "hustle" going on in the bar was the rush to consume as much beer as possible and then get to the bathroom. I know I'm being a little harsh, but was I the ONLY one who realized that the team can't hear the fans unless they are in the stadium?
Tabby's hostility grew exponentially throughout the game, aimed at another customer. Apparently some guy at another table first won her enmity by clapping loudly for the Chiefs (although later I noticed him cheering the Broncos just as exuberantly. This somehow pissed Tabby off even more). He also kept looking over his shoulder at the rest of the bar while doing so. All I saw was Tabby shooting icy daggers of death over my shoulder at him. I thought the guy was oblivious to her utter hatred of him, but when he went to the bathroom and walked by her on the way back, I saw him shoot some kind of look at the back of her head. I evilly couldn't resist telling her about it, and suddenly little 115-pound Tabby was chomping at the bit to kick this guy's ass (he was kind of scrawny so the odds weren't too bad, but that was hardly the point). I told her if she started a brawl, I WOULD leave her ass there.
To distract her, we started playing pool. She beat me in two agonizingly long games, hindered considerably by the unfortunate proximity of customer's tables placed too close to the game table, resulting in trying to complete half the shots without poking someone's liver out (as dearly as I felt like doing so). I love pool but it normally takes me at least 3 games to get warmed up, and a less volatile environment doesn't hurt either. So we returned to our table and the one-sided battle with the unknown but utterly despised customer.
Thank god the Broncos won decisively (Tabby directing all her cheering and clapping spitefully at her arch-nemesis' back). I was afraid to ask her sarcastically if this were her idea of fun, so implacable was the venom in her eyes. I obviously couldn't wait to get out of there; by halftime my eyes were so full of smoke I couldn't even focus enough to see the score on the screen (if I cared). Even as I write this a day later I swear my nostrils are coated with tar, because I can still smell smoke. Disgusting.
Who could ask for a better friend?
In completely unrelated news, I finally managed to tape "Get Carter" off TNT. Thank GOD I didn't waste any money on this for Alan's sake. I think it doesn't say good things for a movie when from watching only the first 6 minutes, Alan's 11 minutes of screen time, and fast forwarding through the rest, I feel like I got enough to know what happened. What crap. Sylvester Stallone is a Neanderthal, and he made sweet Alan cry. But that doesn't change the fact that I must have it for my collection, right next to Alan's 11 minutes in "Plunkett and McLeane."
-=Lainey=-
In case it isn't obvious, I don't like sports. Any sports. I would say I hate them, but it is closer to the truth that I don't even care enough about them to expend energy on hating them. Watching grown men chasing around a ball is secondary only to the Iron Chef cooking competition in the boredom category to me. The only thing more incomprehensible to me than the sports themselves are the fans. People hemorrhaging over whether or not #15 catches the ball or runs far enough with it. I know this because I have witnessed it firsthand; Tery has actually lost sleep over worrying about her team's performance the following day. Needless to say it is very difficult to summon any kind of sympathy for this. I had a damn lump in my breast and never lost a minute of sleep over it, even at my most anxious.
Tabby wanted to go out to lunch before going to the bar, but I protested that I needed SOMETHING to occupy me there; since I don't drink, food is about the only motivation I would have. It helped that we went to Tery's bar, because she knows how uncomfortable I am and takes extra-special care of me. The game hadn't even started and Tabby was already enraged by the preponderance of red in the place. Tery tried to explain to her that it was a "Chiefs bar" but Tabby refused to believe she was a "minority in DEN-VER," she emphasized loudly to no one in particular. Elaine couldn't care less about the topic either way and contentedly munched her mushroom burger.
The game started, and it was everything I hate about sports events or crowds in general. The screaming, the whooping, the hollering, the asinine chants between rival fans. Ugh. I felt like a biologist observing a completely different and decidedly less intelligent species. Tery was amused that I was the only one in the whole place who sat with my back to the big screen TV. At one point a Broncos fan yelled out, "Good hustle, guys," presumably at the players, as the only "hustle" going on in the bar was the rush to consume as much beer as possible and then get to the bathroom. I know I'm being a little harsh, but was I the ONLY one who realized that the team can't hear the fans unless they are in the stadium?
Tabby's hostility grew exponentially throughout the game, aimed at another customer. Apparently some guy at another table first won her enmity by clapping loudly for the Chiefs (although later I noticed him cheering the Broncos just as exuberantly. This somehow pissed Tabby off even more). He also kept looking over his shoulder at the rest of the bar while doing so. All I saw was Tabby shooting icy daggers of death over my shoulder at him. I thought the guy was oblivious to her utter hatred of him, but when he went to the bathroom and walked by her on the way back, I saw him shoot some kind of look at the back of her head. I evilly couldn't resist telling her about it, and suddenly little 115-pound Tabby was chomping at the bit to kick this guy's ass (he was kind of scrawny so the odds weren't too bad, but that was hardly the point). I told her if she started a brawl, I WOULD leave her ass there.
To distract her, we started playing pool. She beat me in two agonizingly long games, hindered considerably by the unfortunate proximity of customer's tables placed too close to the game table, resulting in trying to complete half the shots without poking someone's liver out (as dearly as I felt like doing so). I love pool but it normally takes me at least 3 games to get warmed up, and a less volatile environment doesn't hurt either. So we returned to our table and the one-sided battle with the unknown but utterly despised customer.
Thank god the Broncos won decisively (Tabby directing all her cheering and clapping spitefully at her arch-nemesis' back). I was afraid to ask her sarcastically if this were her idea of fun, so implacable was the venom in her eyes. I obviously couldn't wait to get out of there; by halftime my eyes were so full of smoke I couldn't even focus enough to see the score on the screen (if I cared). Even as I write this a day later I swear my nostrils are coated with tar, because I can still smell smoke. Disgusting.
Who could ask for a better friend?
In completely unrelated news, I finally managed to tape "Get Carter" off TNT. Thank GOD I didn't waste any money on this for Alan's sake. I think it doesn't say good things for a movie when from watching only the first 6 minutes, Alan's 11 minutes of screen time, and fast forwarding through the rest, I feel like I got enough to know what happened. What crap. Sylvester Stallone is a Neanderthal, and he made sweet Alan cry. But that doesn't change the fact that I must have it for my collection, right next to Alan's 11 minutes in "Plunkett and McLeane."
-=Lainey=-
