I'm in the zone, hanging with a few other cats, giddy off free-flowing tomfoolery stemming from a TV game score tilted heavily in our want.

All is groovin' in this little bubble until said game goes stink. Quicker than the average dude can say the wrong thing to the right babe - thus rendering himself un-laid when he's already otherwise passed muster - this whips the pack of jovially jamming jive-asses into a blathering band of cry-babies.

Dense disenchantment, manifest in palpable silence, is mercifully diffused by a beer commercial that then becomes the target of all the pent-up sports rage. Good thing we're not live at a kids' hockey game.

The spot in question features some delusional chump on the make who sputters, "She's got hungry eyes and I'm the all-you-can-eat buffet" while ogling a hottie from big-talk-no-walk distance at a party.

Cut to the chase and, of course, Chumpy is talking this particular brand of shit to the fantasy gal's "significant other" - as can be seen from the cozy photos of the couple conspicuously plastered on the fridge for anyone with eyes to see.

At worst, this thing is a bit of a fledgling take on the old "Hey, man, that's my sister!" response to a "Look at the tits on her!" observation.

We've all seen this ad umpteen times before, perhaps even tonight, with nary a notice, but in this malevolent mood the trite huckstering is downright incendiary.

"Asshole beer companies. Shit doesn't go down like that, for fuck sake!" is easily one of the more eloquent comments amidst the cacophonous vitriol spewed en masse in the aftermath.

Skank scores have been known to spike my blood pressure and blur my objectivity over the years, but I can't bite on this vent.

While just as sickened as the next man over the unfolding game, I'm also highly amused by the group rant. And more to the point, I beg to differ with the sentiments of the suddenly rabid gang.

Not to suggest that beer ads generally bear any semblance to reality, but I mention that even off the top of my head I can recall being a direct party to many a faux pas akin to what we've just seen.

Before I get to breaking it down, Circuits calls me on it. "Yeah, right. One drop, then, gimme just one," he spits with volumes more defiance than the moment warrants.

It's never nice when one of the boys puts you out for doubt, but I just smirk while eyeballing the good sir until his little pea brain tweaks to an instance that's likely to be first on my lips.

He starts a frantic sawing motion in proximity to his own throat, signalling his plea to kill this conversation where it lies. But, alas, clearly I've been provoked.

So I put us all back in mind of the notorious "High Speed" fiasco where he and Evan, another hothead here tonight, severely pummelled each other over a truly enchanting bartender - who had both male and female heads on a swivel - at a night spot.

Circs' sudden and incessant obsessing about "world-class DSL" (huh?) had everyone figuring this was a night to leave him be with his personal demons. But Evan, not able to let that nonsensical DSL jabber ride any longer, broke ranks and demanded some clarification: "What the fuck are you on about?"

Circs pointed directly at the bartender, who was barely out of earshot, and replied incredulously, "Them Dick-Sucking Lips don't move you, son?"

Evan decked him with a quick right. Wasn't pretty. Turns out Evan had been seriously dating the chick on the down-low.

The boys managed to literally and figuratively patch things up well enough over time, but it's still a sore point. This revisiting of it assuages the sporting doldrums and cures the selective collective amnesia on such matters, and we're soon busting up again.

Like about the time King, having discovered that I was familiar with a new business contact of his, confided to me that it was impossible to concentrate in meetings: "Every time I see that woman I just want to grab her and fuck her right there."

It seemed that he was gearing in to more graphic detail, so I felt obliged to hip him to the fact that I was, at that time, otherwise known as the boyfriend of this personage of his wanton desire.

King was understandably mortified, and I was humbly conciliatory because I'd made a similar, if not worse, blunder in the not too distant past after running into an almost forgotten former running mate.

We'd defaulted to pounding a quick one at the nearest hole, and instantly we were lobbing "Do you remember (insert name of hot chick here)" volleys, with insanely banal commentary following closely after each.

I started in about a certain someone and my enduring longing to, with consent: "Tie her up, tongue her down and fuck her with my dick."

"As opposed to my dick?" he wondered aloud while fishing in his pocket.

He brandished a picture from his wallet and smacked it on the table like a domino, then rocked me with, "Married her three years ago, Tiger."

I flipped to backtrack mode, but he was quick to let me off the hook. "Some guys would beat you down on the spot for that - but I can dig where you're coming from," he laughed a little too easily for my comfort.

I prepared to deflect blows that never came.

***

At home with a lady friend a few weeks after game night, intentionally vegging on bad tube, that same blasted beer ad has her in a snit - "rather insulting," she insists - because of its unrealistic bent. I'm not about to take the heat for the beer weasels, so I don't bother telling her that she unknowingly elicited a comparable response from another guest at a black-tie fete we'd recently attended together.

She was striding into the room when this dude nudged me, leaned close and offered, "Look at that. Bet she's a wild one."

But in that circumstance there was no benefit in either boxing the boy or more gently letting loose with the truth that she was my exceedingly excellent gal. So I just cut him short with a narrowing of the eyes, a knowing grunt and a nod in lecherous agreement. 

 

original publication: NOW | VOL. 24 NO. 25