Duff Guy
I had no big MLK, Jr weekend plans. Other then seeing the innards of fellow humans, this weekend was going to be lived moment by moment. And what a moment. Well, actually, it was a you-had-to-be-there type of thing. Do not fret, I will do my best to get you there.
It was Saturday night, January 14, 2006. The abby-normal warm weather in Philly had suddenly ( I mean suddenly) gave way to hurricane like winds from the arctic and wet snowflakes the size and texture of Belgium waffles. . .No. They were the size of pancakes. I AM presently in the mood for some waffles.
Our (our includes: myself, my girlfriend, her 2 friends and my friend Joel) destination was Buffalo Billiards, on Chestnut below 2nd, in olde city. Imagine if you will, pretentious, trendy barfronts strewed across 1776 style Philadelphia. Our reason for said destination was most asinine, I won't bore you.
Inside Buffalo Billiards, as the name implies, is a pool hall slash sports bar slash lounge-upstairs. BB is dimly lit, generously heated (the kind of generous that makes one uncomfortable), and noisy (the noise is create by the patrons and the jukebox).
Ok. Get to the point.
We find a small square table, about 7 feet from the main thruway. The ladies go to the bathroom, living Joel and myself at the table. Enter: 2 drunk tools and a large angry woman (Drunk 1 is on my left and drunk 2 is on my right. The woman belongs to drunk 2). Drunk 1 and Drunk 2 are having the typical drunk tough guy verbal fisticuffs, "Blah, blah. . ." "CocoamoJoe. . ." All the while they are being pushed away from each other by various people. Drunk 1, tries to get through the human barricade to have a more private talk with his enemy. Suddenly, Tank arse, steps up and into drunk 1's face, yelling and screaming. Drunk 1, looks scared and confused. His only reply was "You are so fat, I want to throw-up on you." This guy was pouchy himself.
Joel and I laugh.
More drunken arguing ensues, but something happens. I don't know what it was, I think god whispered something into Drunk 1's ear, because he what he said next was magical. Drunk 1 took a deep breath and said (and I quote):
I WILL HEADBUTT YOU, UNTIL YOU DIE!
The End.
Drunk 2, collapsed out of sheer fear. Joel and I, wet our pants out of fear of god or gods, because we knew these words weren't of earthly origin. These words were from a most divine place. For a moment I had found zen.
I must report, Drunk 1, did not fulfill his promise. There was no death by headbutting, no concussion by headbutt; not even a bruise by headbutt.
I know death is not a form of entertainment. I know this. I also know people, including myself, would pay good money to see Death By HeadButting or DBHB. DBHB would be more entertaining than the WWF, more violent than Real Fighting, and more fulfilling than pro boxing; matches are guaranteed to last at least 2 1/2 to 3 hours.
I believe you are seeing the making of the Vince McMahon of the DBHB world.
Stay Tune.
I had no big MLK, Jr weekend plans. Other then seeing the innards of fellow humans, this weekend was going to be lived moment by moment. And what a moment. Well, actually, it was a you-had-to-be-there type of thing. Do not fret, I will do my best to get you there.
It was Saturday night, January 14, 2006. The abby-normal warm weather in Philly had suddenly ( I mean suddenly) gave way to hurricane like winds from the arctic and wet snowflakes the size and texture of Belgium waffles. . .No. They were the size of pancakes. I AM presently in the mood for some waffles.
Our (our includes: myself, my girlfriend, her 2 friends and my friend Joel) destination was Buffalo Billiards, on Chestnut below 2nd, in olde city. Imagine if you will, pretentious, trendy barfronts strewed across 1776 style Philadelphia. Our reason for said destination was most asinine, I won't bore you.
Inside Buffalo Billiards, as the name implies, is a pool hall slash sports bar slash lounge-upstairs. BB is dimly lit, generously heated (the kind of generous that makes one uncomfortable), and noisy (the noise is create by the patrons and the jukebox).
Ok. Get to the point.
We find a small square table, about 7 feet from the main thruway. The ladies go to the bathroom, living Joel and myself at the table. Enter: 2 drunk tools and a large angry woman (Drunk 1 is on my left and drunk 2 is on my right. The woman belongs to drunk 2). Drunk 1 and Drunk 2 are having the typical drunk tough guy verbal fisticuffs, "Blah, blah. . ." "CocoamoJoe. . ." All the while they are being pushed away from each other by various people. Drunk 1, tries to get through the human barricade to have a more private talk with his enemy. Suddenly, Tank arse, steps up and into drunk 1's face, yelling and screaming. Drunk 1, looks scared and confused. His only reply was "You are so fat, I want to throw-up on you." This guy was pouchy himself.
Joel and I laugh.
More drunken arguing ensues, but something happens. I don't know what it was, I think god whispered something into Drunk 1's ear, because he what he said next was magical. Drunk 1 took a deep breath and said (and I quote):
I WILL HEADBUTT YOU, UNTIL YOU DIE!
The End.
Drunk 2, collapsed out of sheer fear. Joel and I, wet our pants out of fear of god or gods, because we knew these words weren't of earthly origin. These words were from a most divine place. For a moment I had found zen.
I must report, Drunk 1, did not fulfill his promise. There was no death by headbutting, no concussion by headbutt; not even a bruise by headbutt.
I know death is not a form of entertainment. I know this. I also know people, including myself, would pay good money to see Death By HeadButting or DBHB. DBHB would be more entertaining than the WWF, more violent than Real Fighting, and more fulfilling than pro boxing; matches are guaranteed to last at least 2 1/2 to 3 hours.
I believe you are seeing the making of the Vince McMahon of the DBHB world.
Stay Tune.
This entry was posted by Geoff, on
Tuesday, January 17, 2006.
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