Thursday, August 19, 2004

Sidelines Vol. 1

When you spend your twenties saying stupid shit with a bunch of friends who say similar stupid shit (our term for it is "talking sausage"), you end up with a wealth of dialogue snippets and diatribes that bear repeating. Some of them are "guess you had to be there" moments, others are "what the fuck is the matter with you" moments.
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My buddy Dave came back into town the other day from a six-week geological fieldcamp in Montana that kicked the shit out of him. 15 hours a day, 6 days a week for 6 weeks all for 6 units. Six! You want me to work that fucking hard...IN SCHOOL...you better add a fucking '-teen' to that six. But I digress...

His plane landed at SFO around 2pm and he took an airport shuttle into the City where my car was so he could drop all his luggage off. While he waited for me to get off work, Dave went down to a pub across the street from my office, had a few beers, and grabbed a bite to eat. We drove back to Berkeley around 5:30 and headed straight for a bar called Jupiter where our good friend is the manager/bartender. On the way there, Dave mentioned--both verbally and anally--that he needed to find a bathroom.

We pulled up behind the bar about 20 minutes later and Dave bid a hasty retreat into the welcoming embrace of the Jupiter staff bathroom and its endless supply of two-ply toilet paper. While he dropped the Cosby kids off at the pool, I sat down at a table across from the bar and ordered a couple of beers. The girl who brought the drinks over had just been hired that week and happened to be a friend of a friend who I'd hung out with a few times socially. We started chit-chatting about the job and other stupid bullshit that I don't remember because this girl is Argentinian, 5'1", 95lbs, ridiculously pretty and speaking to me with a sweet accented voice that made me want to buy her a corndog.

Dave finally strolls up with a huge grin on his face, basking in the afterglow of his anal exorcism, completely unconcerned about my conversation with the Argentian waitress, and announces "I think I have post-partum depression." That's the last time I have beer in my mouth when Dave comes back from taking a crap.
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The final round of the Masters this spring was a magical moment for many sports fans. Some will never forget where they were when they watched Phil sink that putt on 18 to win his first major championship. I know I'll never forget where I was. At home. On my couch. With Dave. After getting kicked out of a bar. For being, and this is a quote, "classless, tasteless, and rude."

The course at Augusta National is replete with historical golfing landmarks. You probably recognize many of them by name and sight thanks to all those softly-spoken, weepy soundbites from that eunuch Jim Nantz on CBS during the buildup to the tournament.

Sarazen Bridge... Eisenhower Cabin...Amen Corner. Beauty, history, and grace. Join us, won't you? A tradition unlike any other. The Masters. On CBS.
I can just see that fucking pansy Nantz rubbing his nipples while he does those voiceover promos. Fucking twit. Anyway...
One of the landmarks of which I speak is Ray's Creek. Ray's Creek is a small brook that functions as a hazard on the right side of the 12th hole at Augusta. Over the course of Masters weekend, at least one of those overstuffed idiots from CBS' on-course coverage team gives a quick report from right in front of it. Usually something about club selection being critical on that hole or something about what Tiger Woods ate for breakfast. Something stupid, that's all you really need to know.
For some reason, this year Ray's Creek was really dirty. I don't recall if it's always been like that, but this year it was remarkably dirty. It looked like the chocolate river in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or as Dave loudly put it while we were seated at the bar:
D: DUDE, RAY'S CREEK LOOKS LIKE THE GANGES!
N: Oh shit, it totally does. All that's missing are Indian children splashing around while their mothers wash the laundry
D: Do you think Vijay Singh bathes in Ray's Creek every morning?
Dave and I start cracking up at the bar. We can barely breathe we're laughing so hard--completely oblivious to the annoyed patrons around us and the Indian bartender who was serving our drinks.
N: Dude, Vijay Singh isn't even Indian. He's from Fiji! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
D: I know. I still bet he bathes in Ray's Creek. HAHAHAHA With his visor on HAHAHAHA but no shirt HHAHHAHAAAHA so he can clean under his man-titties! HAHAHAHAHAA
N: he uses his putter to reach the hard to reach places. Scrubs up nice and good like an Irish Spring commercial.
I think it might have been the putter comment that pushed the bartender over the edge, but there's no way to be sure
B: Please leave you two.
D: Wha?! Why?!
N: Dude, Dave are you serious?
D: Yeah dude, I don't want to leave. What did we do?
N: Dude, Da--
B: I am a Sikh. I am also Indian and I do not like what you gentlemen are saying. I find it offensive and shocking coming from people in Berkeley. No one else has ever treated me like this in my years in Berkeley. Vijay Singh is a Sikh like me but he is NOT Indian. We are not all the same you know. You both are classless, tasteless and rude and I want you to leave my bar right now. Just pay for your drinks I don't want your money for tip. It is dirty. Please go.
Dave and I just sort of looked at each other, quietly slid off our bar stools, and made our way toward the door like an ashamed version of Michael Corleone in Godfather I when he kills the police captain and Salazzo--eyes straight ahead, looking at no one, feeling the glances of the other patrons, feeling like it's taking forever to get to the exit. We reached the open front door--FINALLY-- and as I started making my way down the stairwell Dave stopped inside the doorway at the top step, turned around, put one arm straight up in the air, scrubbed under his armit with the other and started singing:
D: YOU'RE NOT FULLY CLEAN UNLESS YOUR ZESTFULLY CLEAN!
I don't think we'll be welcome back in that bar anytime soon...unless my anonymous call to the Homeland Security Department bears any fruit.

10 Comments:

Blogger BrianH said...

Ah, Dave... what a gentle soul.

Our initial meeting:

Nils: Dave, this is Brian.
D: Hey. Padron?
B: Nice to meet you as well.
(round of shots consumed)
B: So where are you from?
D: Another shot?
B: Well... okay.
(another round)
B: You lived in Berkeley long?
D: Toke?
B: (silence)
D: Sure you do. To the balcony!
B (to Nils): Dude, it's 2 PM on a Thursday.
N: Batter up!

August 20, 2004 at 2:02 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Fantastic. It's even better when you read the bartender's dialogue with an Apoo accent. I can vouch for the post-geology-field-camp crap. Six weeks of camp food does evil things to your digestive system.

August 20, 2004 at 2:08 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

D: Do you think Vijay Singh bathes in Ray's Creek every morning?

That line is money

August 20, 2004 at 2:13 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

post partum depression. i guess "hooked on phonics" didn't work for you.

August 20, 2004 at 2:48 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Since you can't ban BrianH, can you please tell him to stop posting on the comments section?

BrianH, get your own blog. You're not funny, and your lameness might be contagious.

August 20, 2004 at 2:51 PM  
Blogger NP said...

edit made. thank you Strunk and White

August 20, 2004 at 2:53 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

The Bartender is an idiot. Almost every normal Indian person KNOWS the Ganges is one of the most polluted river systems in the world. I couldn't be paid to jump in.

I bet the Bartender turned around and told someone else that very same joke. There are a tonne of jokes on the Ganges and Sikhs (FYI: Sikhs don't bathe in Ganges, Hindus do) that Indians use on a normal bases, kinda like the "Blonde" jokes here.

The dude was probably offended by the fact that some white people in BERKLEY, the hippie capital of America, could say something so blasphemous.

August 20, 2004 at 3:15 PM  
Blogger Brian said...

Can't stand Jim Nantz. He probably rubs one out to "One Shining Moment" every year while sniffing one of Clyde Drexler's old jocks.

By the way, it's Rae's Creek while you're at it.

August 20, 2004 at 3:22 PM  
Blogger Matt K. said...

"completely oblivious to the annoyed patrons around us"

I don't know what's funnier, the singh joke, or the fact that you actually used some of the masters "lingo" that the douchebag analysts use.



Oh and tiger has snap hooked another into the patrons.

August 20, 2004 at 10:16 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hey why doesn't the link to "Kill 'Em All" work? I wanted to send it to a friend but the link to that story doesn't work. Also the link to that story's comments doesn't work. All of the other links work.

August 21, 2004 at 12:10 AM  

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