A Saturday Tale

Good morning Blog World. Hope all is well in your corner of the forest. We have a skiff of snow on the ground. For you non-Hoosiers that would be a dusting. The weather quacks claim we will have 2 inches by 9:00 in the morning. Mother Nature better get busy. I am not sure it is even still snowing.

After a very wet summer, we have seen little to no snow so far this season. It has been cold, but I can live with that. Maybe the dry spell will continue through January and February? That is some climate change I can get behind.

I met a buddy yesterday evening for a couple of cigars and a couple of beers. I had a nice time. It has been a long time since I went out. These days my extremely rare Boy's Night Out are pretty mellow. That is a far cry from my younger days when I lived the true redneck lifestyle, drinking, fighting and raising Hell. Somewhere in my archives is the story of my fight in a third rate strip club. I will offer a brief version here.

I was working the graveyard shift and a few of us went for drinks after work one Saturday morning. Some of you might find pounding beer at 7:00 in the morning a little strange, but those of you who have worked the third shift understand. Morning turned to late afternoon and only my pal Duane and I were left. We found ourselves in the infamous Combo Lounge, a dank strip club where aging and ugly strippers went to end their careers. Working a strip club in a farm town of 16,000 is not anywhere close to the road to fame and fortune.

There were about ten people in the bar on this Saturday afternoon. I was ignoring the strippers, as was my custom. I honestly have never really seen the point of getting yourself all flustered with no chance of release. Admittedly there was slim chance of that with this crop of females. The saturday afternoon crowd is not probably the place to make a lot of tips. My buddy Duane went to the restroom. A few minutes later I heard a commotion.

Suddenly the door to the head flew open and I see Duane, a big stocky linebacker in high school, deliver an overhand right to some guy's face. The stranger back peddled right at me. At the last minute he gained his balance and turned, just in time to meet my own right hand. In classic pack mentality, I figured if this guy had done something to deserve a punch from my friend, I was in it too. I am sure you guys will understand.

The stranger fell back from my punch only to get another smack from Duane. The guy was like a human version of one of those bumper cars you had as a kid. Every time it hit the wall it went in the opposite direction.

The guy offered no further resistance and Duane and I paid our tab and left at the suggestion of the management. After we staggered to our car, I asked Duane what the guy had done to warrant the mild beating. Duane said that he had pissed on the stranger's shoes while they were standing at the urinal (on purpose) and the guy had called him a mother fucker. "No one is calling me a mother fucker." Duane said.

Like Archie and Edith used to sing, "Those were the days"...