The Angry Old Man On the Next Bar Stool

Last weekend, Tina & I were hanging out by the pool with Toni & John (my sister-in-law/brother-in-law). After several hours of strenuous lounging, we naturally worked up an appetite. We finally settled on Chinese food. So, John & I assumed the role of hunter-gatherer and headed to one of the local Chinese carry-outs. There are so many Chinese carry-outs in Pasadena, I sometimes feel like I'm in Shanghai. But that's another story...

Anyway....

We head into the restaurant and place our order. Going against better judgement, I went with the General Tso's chicken. Of course, this decision literally burned me the next day. I know, too much information, so let us move on....

After being told that our food would take about twenty minutes to prepare, I came up with another bad idea when I suggested to John that we head over to a nearby bar to have a beer while we waited on our food. So, we crossed the street and walked into the dive.

The first thing that I noticed when we walked in was that everyone appeared to be shitfaced. Perhaps a bit odd at 5 o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, but who am I to judge? Well, we pull up the first two vacant bar stools in sight. I order a couple of draft beers. Of course, when I go into an unsophisticated bar, I like to order the most sophisticated beer in the house. I guess I'm a bit rebellious that way. So, I order a Heavy Seas Loose Cannon.

John and I clink our beer mugs and prepare to indulge in a 20-minute conversation while the lady across the street cooks up my General Tso's. Before we can even get a word out, the old guy sitting next to slaps me across the shoulder and says, "Aayy! You like football?"

Practically spitting out my beer, I respond, "Well, now that you mention it. Yes, I do like football."

Desperately hoping that this will be a brief encounter, the guy immediately follows up with, "Football's a pussy sport!"

"Um, ok," I reply.

Knowing that I'm probably in this for the long haul (or at least until the end of my Loose Cannon), I reluctantly ask, "So, what made you come to the conclusion that football is a pussy sport?"

He looks at me like I'm an idiot and slowly explains, "Because --- they're ----- a ---- bunch ----- of ----- pussies! That's why!!"

I guess, logically speaking, his explanation made sense. He then went on to tell me how rugby was the sport of real men. When I told him that rugby players were nuts, he stared at me like he was about to crack me upside the head with his beer mug. Assuming that he may have had a slight case of ADD, he quickly shifted to a new topic...politics. Oh joy...

He happened to overhear someone talking about former governor Willy Don Schaefer and this really set him off. He instinctively spewed out a profanity laced tirade about Schaeffer. He was so heated that he appeared to be shaking. I thought that he might be having a stroke. I tried to calm him down by putting my hand on his shoulder and saying, "Relax, the man is dead. He can't piss you off anymore." 

The guy stared right through me and I quickly took my hand off of his shoulder. Then he said, "You know what I would say to Governor 'Shit-fer' if he was standing right here?" 

Knowing that I was towing a dangerous line with this guy, I reluctantly said, "I have absolutely no idea. What would you say to him?"

The old man scrunches up his face and slowly lays his middle finger across his nose. Then, he says, "That's what I would tell 'em!"

He continued to hold his middle finger in the middle of his scrunched up face for an uncomfortable amount of time. I almost reached over and pulled his hand down. But, figuring that I might pull back a nub, I let it go.

Turning towards John, I started to say something, but was interrupted by another slap across the back from the old man. He apparently wanted to talk some more football as he asks, "Aaay! You want to me to tell you about real football team?"

I spontaneously replied, "Wait a minute. I thought football players were pussies?"

"No!", he says. "Not the Baltimore Colts."

Fully aware at this point that I was playing with fire, I diligently explained, "Umm, I don't know if you got the memo, but the Baltimore Colts left town about 30 years ago."

This brings a long 100-mile stare from the old man. For a second, I thought for sure that he was going to slug me. But instead, he brings his middle finger back up as he scrunched his face again. After about thirty seconds, through his clenched teeth, he says, "And you can thank Mayor Shit-fer for that!" (He said it in the same way in which Clint Eastwood uttered his famous "Go ahead, punk. Make my day.." line.)

A bit confused, I ask, "So, it's Mayor Schaefer's fault that the Colts left Baltimore?"

"You're damn right!", he confirms and predictably puts his middle finger up to his scrunched up face yet again. And then he went on to try to convince me that Baltimore had an NFL team prior to the Baltimore Colts. When I disagreed with him, he seemed to take offense that I had the nerve to question him. It was like I had just told him that his mother wore combat boots. At this point, it was quite obvious that there was more than one Loose Cannon at the bar.

Defying stupidity, I throw gas on the fire and ask, "Don't you think that Bob Irsay might have a little to do with the Colts leaving town?"

The guy starts to tremble and shake. Transitioning into his Dirty Harry persona one agin, he informs me, "He's a f*ckin' asshole!" Perhaps, most surprising was that he kept his middle finger in his holster this time...

As John finishes up the last of his beer, he finally rescues me and says, "Are you ready to get the hell out of here?"

I must mention that John is usually the one who winds up next to "the guy" when we go out. So, he thankfully acknowledged that I took the bullet today. We shook our heads as we walked across the street to pick up up our Chinese food. Freed at last.....

kw