Thursday, December 27, 2007
Nacho: Sorry for the hiatus, but the Brethren were too busy nursing holiday hangovers to post. We've got a slew of stories from our vacation, the first up being the night Beason hurt the Cowboys Super Bowl hopes.
The day was crisp, last Saturday. We'd seen Neon Deion at the Bobcats' game the night before, and the unmistakable air of Double J was in the air.
The Sports Parents had invited me down to the Club section, a place usually reserved for the well-to-do of Charlotte. We found our seats, the weather was delectable and excitement brewed. As the Rents found their seats Cap'n Pappy let us know that The Great Mustachio himself, Adam Morrison, was sitting just a few rows up. I immediately walked up, we talked for a bit, and I let him know he'd be seeing me again in LA when the Bobcats played the Clippers.
The game happened, some asshole stole my Jessica Simpson mask, Matt Moore looked ok, the offense continued to be uninspired, and Panthers seemed to never get any pressure on Romo. Good, now that that's out of the way, lets get down to the Awesome, after...
Turns out the milquetoast bankers in front of us started jawing to one another during halftime, leading to an altercation. Security was beckoned, tempers flared, but nothing came of it. This all happened while I was getting more hooch at the bar. Long about ten minutes later, Bland Man #1 turned to Bland Man #2 and started in again with several variations on the phrase "You're an asshole." Apparently creativity isn't necessary to file data for Wachovia.
Voices were raised, security was again beckoned but this time, he brought the Fuzz with him. Mammy was on pins and needles, just waiting for me to throw myself into the scuffle and get booted from the stadium. I decided, in my drunken stupor, to let the Large Vaginas in front of us take the heat this night, and we got front row seats to some well-executed beding-over and handcuffing. It was beyond badass. The rest of the game we had lounge-a-licious seats where we could prop our feet up with no one hasslin' us. In that respect, the game was an unabashed victory. I got to come home, see a Panther game, and see idiots get arrested. A+ in my book.
On last note, Jimmy Cross aka Friend Who Fears Nash, noted that Wade Phillips looks an awful lot like Marla Hooch's dad from "A League of Their Own."
Now I'll pass it along to Brethren to give you the perspective from the nosebleeds.
Brethren: Yes, the report from the nosebleed was not quite as awesome in that I didn't see any handcuffs brung out. But that didn't stop me from talking shit to any and all Cowgirl fans.
As most friends know, I suffer from somewhat of a Napoleonic Complex when I get the drunk. I mean, shit, I'm bigger than Napoleon, and he nearly conquered all of Europe. Surely, I can take down men much larger than me! I have wit!
So whether it's over a friendly beer pong game, some asshole at a bar, or certainly a redneck Cowgirls fan, I start talking lots of shit (only if I have large friends with me though). I choose us being down 10-0 to start it, and it doesn't end until we lose 17-10. And in the end, my Cowgirl brethren and I ended up wishing each other a merry Christmas and going on our way. It was cute.
So the Panthers move to 6-9, I get to feed my inner Napoleonic desires, and I was able to take some friends to the game who wouldn't have been able to go. It was a grand old time all around.
Onwards to Tampa!