Moms I'd Like to Watch Baylor Football With

Started Wednesday night at The Windsor, where me and two TX friends were the lone table more interested in watching the Baylor-Illinois “Texas Bowl” than the Georgetown-Notre Dame basketball game – after fending off a few prep-tastic would-be channel-changers, I said “Those guys can Choate on my cock”. I wish I'd thought of that before they switched tables, though with my luck, they probably went to Exeter.

Except my luck last night was fantastic: I laid down a $200 bet on Oklahoma State -4.5 vs Arizona and ended up winning the shit out of it.



Then on the way to the oddly imposing urinal, two also-preppy Devils fans at the bar asked if I was friends with “Jordan”, who I found out later was the manager. I said no, I was just a man out to watch some exciting Baylor University football, a program built entirely on recruiters telling Baptist moms their sons would go to hell if they attended the University of Texas. For some reason they thought I was cool, or at least “remember that dude we met last night? holy shit!” cool.

Probably because they were high. On the ecstasy. “I share everything, except my pills!” said the louder one (the other one was so quiet I had to ask if he was rolling too, or just babysitting – his tiny terrorist fist bump affirmed that, yes, he was rolling too). Pretty quickly he was offering me his girlfriend. Her not being around, he quickly threw his steak into the deal. “Have my steak, cool guy!” he screamed. “If you don't eat your steak, how can you have any pudding? How can you have any pudding if you don't eat your steak!”

He had a point, and a bad English accent. I cut off a big bite of his steak. Then came the pudding: when they decided I needed to take four shots of Jack, one after the other. The bartender asked what I wanted to do, in a tone that said that while there was shame in turning down a shot, there was none in turning down four. But really, there's more shame in it – you're not just turning down momentary fraternity, you're turning down a story that'll last a lifetime. Or at least a week.

“Fuck it, I want these guys to remember me tomorrow”. I took the four. When I left them, the loud one was on his knees, enraptured by the shoe size of a guy who'd played football at SUNY Buffalo. "Look at how big! These feet were all-conference at CUNY Buffalo!" The big fellow was not happy with the mispronunciation.

Within 30 minutes I was at the new Hog Pit, drinking Wild Turkey and belting out a song I'd just made up to Ibar (short for Ibarguengoitia), a guy who once drunkenly punched me in the gut for flirting with a married woman I'd already half-truthfully told him I had no intention of actually trying to sleep with. “Flirting's where it starts!” he'd yelled as I'd tried really hard not to throw up.

Fittingly, the new song was about a guy telling his friend not to cockblock his own mom.

“I know
You want to drive her home
Like any good son would
But she's feeling the love, so don't get in the way...
Your mom wants to stay!”

Yesterday I smuggled a flask of vodka into Tron. Needless to say, I didn't even have the heart to drink it.