The scenery was nicer at the bar anyway, with two hotties pouring the drinks and taking the orders. Gee, I wonder if they get hit on much. I mean, most guys who come into the bar are married old dirty bastards in town on business who think that they can flash a few beans and get a young hottie to jump all over their wrinkled old and fat genitalia.
Nah, they probably don’t get hit on much. And they’re probably not like extra nice to the aforementioned old dirty bastards to get bigger tips.
Bags, being single, was of course obligated to at least pretend that he was hitting on them – but I, being old, married, smelly and disgusting, figured that I’d just try to stay awake. That would be a moral victory for me. I know what you’re thinking – why didn’t you just tell them that you write a Magic column on StarCityGames.com? They’d be putty in your hands!
I like to leave some for the other guys once in a while. I consider that my contribution to society. So, to everyone who ever has been or will someday get laid… You’re welcome.
I opened up the menu and saw”Tossed salad – $8.” Good thing Ol’ Bags was footing the bill. After pondering the rest of the entire two or three things on the menu for more than a few minutes, I settled on some blackened chicken pasta thing for the bargain basement price of only $20. Twenty bucks for a meal better be a) really damned good, or b) served by Britney Spears, who will tenderly feed me, wipe my chinny chin chin and then disrobe (slowly, Brit, slowly), moonwalk or perform other parlor tricks for my general amusement, and finally affix herself to any number of bedposts for my general carnal enjoyment.
Well, the meal was really, really big – I’ll give ’em that. But somehow, I doubt The Bag felt as if he got his $20 worth. Or maybe he did, for I am nothing if not engaging and/or stimulating conversation in a classy frontwards lid.
We ate, drank and were merry and all, then headed up to the room to <pathetic alert coming> one-on-one draft. I’d give you the decklists if I wasn’t so embarrassed.
After I kill Bags to death eight or nine games in a row, he turns on the TV, which is what every God-fearing American boy should do in times of crisis.
Championship boxing? Um, whatever.
Paul”The Pittsburgh Kid” Spadafora, some amazing wuss from my former hometown, had a gigantic temporary tattoo emblazoned on his back that read”SBG,” which apparently is a sponsor of his. There’s nothing cooler than watching two lightweights fight like bitches and have advertising shoved down my throat to boot.
Me: (rhetorically) Why the hell would he do that?
The Bagger Vance: Because he’s getting paid!
Me: (rhetorically) Is everyone a whore?
Spadafora won, but man, is that guy a wuss. As are all boxers who aren’t heavyweights. My kids throw harder punches than those pansies. He pretty obviously beat his opponent, but when the bell rang ending the fight, both fighters jumped up on the ropes and raised their hands to declare their victory. I know what you’re thinking – a lightweight fight that didn’t end in a knockout? Shocking!
After the judges announced the verdict, Paulie’s opponent was seen pleading his case to the camera:
“I know I won, you know I won, and he (motions upwards, indicating God) knows I won.”
Yep, and God is right now filing a grievance on your behalf. Or maybe he’s sending you an email suggesting that you might win more matches if you stopped punching like a little bitch.
After the fight,”The Substitute, Part 3″ was on. Lemme give you a brief review: Two thumbs all up in the ass of everyone associated with that flick. And anyone related to anyone associated with that flick.
Sasha Mitchell look-alike:”It’s heavily guarded, with early warning and concertina wire.”
Immediately cut to the next scene, which shows Sasha Mitchell look-alike guy and Treat Williams inside the place that is heavily guarded with early warning and concertina wire. Apparently, he was exaggerating.
Tip: If you mention that a place is heavily guarded, show at least one friggin’ guard. If you mention that a place has early warning, maybe put in a scene where they get around it. If you mention concertina wire, maybe it might be tight if you actually showed some goddamned concertina wire. Or maybe stop writing such crappy screenplays.
And perhaps you may have noticed something that makes me long for that gun permit that I hope no one ever grants me…Way too many movies and TV shows and just about every other medium overuses the characters names. Like this:
Joe, So, Mike, what do you think about this?
Mike; Look, Joe, that’s none of your business.
Joe: Is that right, Mike?
Mike: Yes, Joe, it is.
Joe: I think it is my business, Mike.
Mike: I assure you, Joe, that it’s not.
Joe: Screw you, Mike.
Mike: Joe, you wish you could.
Experiment: Try to pay attention when you talk to other people. Notice how often you use the person’s name that you are talking with. I bet you use it once per hour, if that. And yet, we’re led to believe that each sentence must start or end with the person’s name that we are addressing.
Wow, that makes me wanna puke. And it should make you wanna puke. But it probably doesn’t because you don’t care because, again, you hate me.
See above rant about how much most screenwriters suck a big, fat, stinky thing that is oozing pus as we speak.
Next up: 48 Hrs, on TNT. Not the TV show, the movie with Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy. Yes, it was edited for television, and oh my, was that some funny stuff. If you are even remotely familiar with that movie, you may know that it was filled with an ungodly amount of bad words and racist remarks, all of which were cut out.
I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. That Ted Turner is finally good for something other than making me vomit at the site of him and everything he stands for – funny censorship!
Next, we watched about twenty minutes of Uncommon Valor, and despite the presence of Gene Hackman, Patrick Swayze, Tex Cobb, Fred Ward and Robert Stack, it couldn’t keep me awake. It might be because I saw that movie about a million times when I was a tyke, or it might be because I’m no longer ten years old and find myself falling asleep during movies that really, really suck.
One bed. Hmm.
The Bag is like just every other Magic player I’ve met – he’s all about sharing the bed. However, I’m all about sleeping on the floor. In fact, I moved the desk, two chairs and an ottoman into a circle, barricaded it with extra pillows and built one badass fort.
If I had one more blanket, I could’ve built a full-fledged tent fort, but The Marriott is all about not giving peeps the proper supplies to build tent forts. Those bastards. But they were nice enough to provide a small bottle of Evian in the bathroom – for your convenience of course. If you happen to drink it, though, that’ll be four bucks.
Safe and nice and cozy in my fort, I slept like a baby. I even woke up with a stiffy! Okay, I always wake up with a stiffy. After thinking a lot about chyx named Agnes and Bertha, stiffy chilled, and I drove Bagger to the airport. No time for tearful goodbyes, for The Bag and I are nothing if not mortal enemies. But he did pay for my amazingly overpriced meal, so I guess he’s sort of okay, even though he built a deck with Centaur Veteran.
That’s nowhere near as ballsy as a play I saw in the PTQ.
And I didn’t even get lost on the way home.
All right, what am I forgetting? I think I covered everything since the day I was born, so I guess I got it all.
23,621 words. They call me Johnny Extreme – one line or 2,949 – rarely anything in between. I am so pathetic. But tight.
(Now for the kicker – my wife, upon hearing that I edited a hundred pages of Rizzoese, asked me the fatal question:”Does anyone READ a hundred-page article? All the way?” If you got this far, drop me an email at [email protected] that says,”Yes, I read everything Rizzo writes, right down to the damn bottom!” I know some of you do, but I’m kinda curious. While you’re at it, share your favorite joke with me as well – The Ferrett, who told Rizzo the goat joke)
John Friggin’ Rizzo