An Afternoon at the Beagle Pub

He probably thinks himself a miss-placed soul: according to his logic, a mixture of folk wisdom, trade school lectures and Ekhart Tolle, he should have been incarnated in the late 1930s, thus reaching the peak of his virility by 1959-1961.  Suspenders mark his plaid back with an authoritative X.  He speaks animatedly, with his hands, about the football game on the big screen at this old tavern.1. “Nobody will ever be as good as Sammy Baugh! ”  He screams, round spectacles alternately reflecting and refracting the pubs dim light. “I mean, he wore leather on his skull!  Not like these newfangled plastic helmets with cameras and lightening bolts and whatnot!  Sammy was a real man!  He took his fair share of hits too! ”  People listen when he speaks.

Across the pub from the man is a table of twenty some things, who are well into their cups.  All four of them wear their caps backwards and they have, in the past few minutes, started to toss a pigskin back and forth to one another across the table; no glasses have been broken, yet.  Their waitress has shot them several dirty looks, which they have ignored; instead, they have commenced very blatant ogling.  They become increasingly aggressive.

At Half Time, they leave the pub, temporarily, to practice longer throws in the parking lot.  The one with the Redskins cap is struck by a light blue, 1987 Volvo wagon: he walks it off, however, and he and his buddies soon return to the pub.  Redskins cap receives a Jager-bomb for his bravery and becomes more exuberant and expressive as soon as he “knocks her back! ”

The men at this table never look at one another in the midst of their eager chatter.  Instead, they take turns speculating as to whether or not their waitress would be a good lay.  They also look over to our misplaced soul, who becomes the subject of many an off-color jab. At the end of the last game one of the backwards-cap-men found himself standing beside misplaced soul at the urinal.  Misplaced soul made the mistake of trying to strike up a conversation: “Hell of a game, that was. ”  He said.  Backwards cap took great pride in recounting the rest of the story to his buddies.

“So the fuckin guy starts talking to me!  Can you fucking believe that?  He probably just wanted an excuse to look at my huge fucking cock. ” “How do you know, did he bring out his fucking microscope? ”  Laughter. “Fuck you man, serious… anyways, so I turn and face the guy—pissed all over his fuckin gay-ass loafers. ”  Table erupts in laughter and banging fists. “Oh, I am so sorry, I said, must’ve forgot what I was doing there for a sec! ”  Table once again erupts. “I think it really pissed him off! ”  (Laughter: faces turn, once again, to face big screen).

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