"You're a real asshole, you know that?" I can do better.

I can't top it.  I've climaxed like a horse knocking back the waiting face of some poor girl in a video i was forced to watch via peer pressure as a college freshman.  Now it's a one way road to the glue factory.  Which isn't to say that glue does not have its place in society--surely it does--but my girth does not carry value at a rendering plant.  So I will go somewhere else.  And Baltimore it will be.
****
Strange city, this.  I saw Ray Lewis on a car commercial.  I hope he was offering to protect it, rather than use it as his cover as he murdered someone in a club.  But i digress.  It's a giant frontier as I'd expect would make old westerners comfortable.  I walked to a bar on saturday with full-fledged gambling at the front.  Texas hold-'em $100 buy in.  Some floozy (a word i've taken to saying far too much of late) moseys up, bats an eyelash at her man and he gives her a crumpled wad of cash.  At which point he stumbles backwards and falls against a pole.  She counts seven bucks in ones.  She asks for more.  He says, "here's four."  Some guy suggests, "just eighty-nine more."  He huffed away, insisting something about ESPN cameras making his life difficult.  The girl did not come with him.  I used this distraction to hole myself in a corner and rip a cigarrette with volocity unseen since Morton Downey, Jr. (Great reference, Kevin!).  Like the Frank family of Amsterdam, I was found by an oppressive regime, in this case my father.   If he had night vision goggles, i would have looked more mischevious than a raccoon in a trash can or Paris Hilton with a piece of trash.  He asks where i got it.  AND THEN BUMS A SMOKE.  Bonding.  It's not just for S&M any more.
******
I was at a bar on Friday.  Accidently got drunk.  For unremembered reasons, some girl comes up to me.  I'm reeking of booze and dressed to the nines in a Buddy Cianci Tee. She whispers something in my ear and kisses me on the cheek.  She walks away.  "You looked beautiful coming toward me," I say, feeling slightly smooth, "but you look better going away."  I don't remember intending to be a dickhead, at least until i overheard a slightly-outdated "Oh snap!" Of the three girls that followed her, the hottest, "The Inforcer" as it were (what is this?  GLOW?  Roller derby?) was in charge of telling me off:
Inforcer: Apologize.
Me: Huh?
Inforcer:  You're a real asshole, did you know that?
Me: Huh? What?
Inforcer: (Louder) YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE!
Me: Uhh.  Yeah.  I totally know what you're saying!

However, i didn't know what she was saying.  I don't hear very well at bars, and "I totally know what you're saying!" is my stock answer to any question.  It had never met its match.  When what she had screamed at me finally registered, i got defensive.  Then, i realized that my answer wasn't entirely far-fetched. 
******
We are talking about practice.  Not a game, practice.  The All Star break for the Summer of Kevin.  We've let some of the stars show their wares in an exhibition game.   I'm gearing up for the playoffs.  i don't want to throw out my arm.  Watch out, drunken Eskimos with herpes, i'm comin' atcha.  Practice is over.