IMWRS
Created | Updated Jul 11, 2003
Ah, here begins yet another fight with this accursed cursor blink-blink-blinking about my page. I thank the computer gods for making it blink, however, for I believe I would go mad if it should do something like beeping or some such irritation. Though I fear, reader, I have simply gone mad none-the-less. And what to write about today...
I chose this very evening to write a follow up to my clubs article. Though, I fear reader, that this establishment doesn't qualify as a club. The establishment in question is a local sports bar I have come to frequent here as of late. Sports Bar's are an anomaly in and of themselves. Reader, where else can a man go and watch the 'big game', get served various forms of hors d'oeuvres, beer and cigars and all the while enjoying the latest music and have it all served by some of the most gorgeous women in the club-going experience. But alas, my dear reader, should you try to partake in the serving girl she invariably has a boyfriend doing time at many and varied federal penitentiaries. And this presents a curious anomaly that the author will have to devote time to later. For if one was to ask the same waitress two, three, even four weeks in a row, you will find unequalled loyalty and the name of a different federal institution every time. So one can only assume that the waitress lacks variety, imagination, or intelligence.
But alas, the author has started to move off into directions unintended and probably uninteresting to the reader. Back to the point at hand... Sports Bars.
Through their smoke-laden haze one is assured to see men in all varied sizes and attitude yelling at players on a screen half a world away. Obviously thinking that through some miracle the player will actually hear him and not fumble the ball at the crucial moment in the game and lose the yeller 50 bucks to his fellow bar mates. Music will be blaring and strobe lights strobin', waitresses in all their glory carrying around fried concoctions of every sort to destinations strategically placed through any random importance in the bar.
Now reader, there are many types of sports bar go-ers, and I will discuss a few of these in the ensuing paragraphs. The first of the sports bar go-ers I will name is the one I call 'The Pain'. 'The Pain' is the omniscient all-knowing expert in every sport known to man. Truth be told, my reader, 'The Pain' knows as much about sports as the author knows about the symbols on the outside of tampon boxes1. You see reader, 'The Pain' enters the sports bar like it is his domain and moves to the nearest big screen television to unerringly make remarks about how, in his high school days, he could throw-catch-tackle-shoot-hit-dive-spike better than the professionals on the screen. The Pain has no interest in females who frequent the bar, not because of the overwhelming draw of the sporting event on the TV, but rather he has no chance on any of them. For my reader, women won't stand for a fake... am I right? He knows it too.
Next, my fair reader, is the one who knows nothing about the sport on the television, cares less about the televised game than he knows about, and makes no assumption one way or the other. I will call him 'The Realist'. 'The Realist' enters the bar, not "macking", not "pimping", not "anything"; he simply enters the bar shows his ID and follows 'The Pain' to the table and sits down. He has no presumptions about his manhood or the fact he that he doesn't know the difference between a side-out and an out of bounds. Nor can he pick out a racquetball from a soccerball2. The realist enters the bar and sits down, promptly picks up the menu and feigns interest at the plays his friend 'The Pain' is yelling at. Ultimately he will choose the cheapest appetizer or food item and will pick up his favorite brew and settle in for what promises to be an evening of entertainment. Not for the game or the visual eye candy that might enter the bar, but for how his fellow bar go-ers make asses of themselves. He will thank the lord he knows better. 'The Realist', my friends, does have one fault. And before you give the author a loud and emphatic 'no', I will tell you what it is. It's his self-esteem. Not personnel but more in the lines of naiveté. You see reader; it is 'The Realist' that attracts the women in these bars. It is 'The Realist' that wins. Why? Because he makes no presumptions about his manhood, does not give off the testosterone overload and quite frankly my dear, he doesn't give a darn. Women will approach 'The Realist' all the time and 10 times out of 5 he will blow. 'The Realist', my reader, unwaveringly leaves the bar alone.
Number three in the line of descriptions is the life of the group. I will call him 'The Irritation', for that is what he is for his friends late in the evening and women early in the evening. 'The Irritation' enters the bar and does exactly the opposite of what his compatriot 'The Realist' does. He "pimps" he "swaggers", he "presumes". Ladies and Gentlemen this is Gods gift to the sports bar... in his mind. He enters behind his cohorts and saunters up to the table and sits down as if he is all that and a pickle. He will be the one to find out what state prison the waitress' boyfriend is in this week and he will make an idiot of himself. As the night wears on he will become increasingly drunk and increasingly annoying. He will approach each and every woman in his age group, to begin with, and then move on to women that are old enough to be his mother. He will, later in the evening, yell in support of his friend 'The Pain' for no known reason, and manage to alienate the waitress. 'The Irritation' will summarily leave the bar alone as well. The only difference is, my fair reader, is that he will be complaining about his lack of action the entire way home. This will summarily tork off... 'The Human'.
'The Human' enters about five feet behind the other three. 'The Human' is an optional member of the group. He will not be present all the time. Usually, reader, 'The Human' is home alone feeling to good for the bar in question, the only flaw I might add is his haughtiness. He will assume a position at the table with his back to the TV. He will read the menu and decide that all the items on the menu are not worth his colon, so he will get a glass of water, or maybe, in rare cases, enjoy some mixed drink for the better part of an hour. He will not flirt... much. He will not get angry. He will simply sit back and watch the other three and take on the "responsible" role. Now, reader, on this particular occasion, he will leave with a female and in three to nine months will marry them and thank his three friends at the wedding for "dragging" him out to meet his future wife. These three men I might add will be doing the exactly same thing they were doing on that night. Only 'The Pain' is now an expert on relationships... 'The Realist' will still blow any chance he has with the wife's sister, and 'The Irritation' will be the talk of the bride and groom for years to come... mainly the conversation will consist of 'Why did you invite him?', 'I am sorry honey, but I owe him', 'you're sleeping on the couch' variety. 'The Human', my friends is the lucky one.
Researcher, I implore you to examine this phenomenon and contribute to an anthropological study on the human social experience.
Until then, my friends, I look forward to hearing from you and Godspeed in all your adventures. I will be here waiting.
