The Time Limit Will Be 15 Minutes...
Four of us went out for a meal tonight after practice... a common enough thing when the alternative is... go home, under cook your pasta and over cook your bland chicken, add canned pasta sauce and vegetables... and stare at a TV/computer the rest of the night... coincidentally the exact same thing you do every other night... and getting one thing straight... Youtube and 'Party of Five' reruns can (only?) take you (only?) so far...
... So as we settle into food, drink, and another meaninglessly enjoyable conversation about nothing in particular... a run-down on the troubles of the world... 2012... Obama and the Stimulus Plan... hockey rumors... all the craziness we saw on Youtube... how all this might affect the exchange rate... and what Ron Paul has to say about it... some random hockey fan walks up to the table... eyes us down... 'ahem'... interrupts... 'M'ESCUZIE'... louder... grabs my arm... introduces us all to... 'Frank!'... himself... pulls up a chair... grabs his beer from his table... sits down... buys us a round of beers... 'PROST!'... and proceeds to carry out a 20 minute, completely one-sided conversation about how we have to win... 'Imperative'... (with fingers touched to thumb in his best George Bush impression)... how he likes soccer better... 'Because I am Italiano'... and how much he's had to drink today... 'BURP'... (and suddenly with crazy eyes) 'watch out because if you say something bad about soccer we'll have trouble later'... now rinse and repeat those same lines for 19 more minutes... an I don't even thing he was THAT drunk so as to feel compelled to repeat the same things due to the annoying ('I love you man') drunkard forgetfulness syndrome... I honestly think they were the only words he actually knew in English...
...the guy varies between trying to kiss all of us... 15 long and draaawn-out 'prosts'... poking our arms... grabbing the back of our heads and bring it in for a head butt... small slaps across the cheek... letting us know he might fight us at the end of the night... twisting a guys ear because he said he likes Uventes... and letting no conversation take place outside of his total of 112 word English vocabulatory rolodex... ...
... Needless to say we were cordial... with the occasional eye-glances to the ceiling... a couple of deep exhales... ignoring him as much as possible... trying to move the guys' chair to a different table when he left to go to the bathroom... daring him to go drunkenly hit on a couple girls that walked in (and by hit on I mean walk by and stare at them while scratching his belly button)... making him mad by dissing soccer and Inter Milan as much as possible... saying we would probably take him up on his offer to fight all of us (joking, of course.. ahem... punch)... a 'Just Friends' moment of trying to find Ashton and his hidden cameras around the room... 'ASHTON?!'... and then a swift retreat out of the place... with a varying mixture of anger about a stolen night, hilarity about a ridiculous night, and guilt about a ditching out on a lonely guy in a bar trying to make a connection with anybody... night...
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