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My Friday Night:

I had seats front and center at Cap’n Tobey’s bar with three plasmas right in front of me.  Celtics on the left, Bruins in the center, and Sox/Yanks on the right.  My girlfriend was foolish enough to accompany me despite my urging her to stay home.  I was overstimulated and planned on being overserved.  Never a good mix with the lovely lass nearby.  It was apparent early that we might be in for a debacle with the Celtics refusing to play any defense and throwing up bricks on offense.  They quickly fell way behind and were never able to recover, stumbling their way to the worst home loss in Celts playoff history.

I implored the bar wench to keep the absolut red bulls coming, and she obliged.

Meanwhile, the Bruins were playing a see-saw tilt with the Broad Street Bullies.  My eyes darted back and forth between the hockey and Josh Beckett starting to unravel against the Yankees.  I was starting to become surly.  Flyers goal- Beckett walk- LeBron trey. Things were going great!

Just then a medium size twenty something with a receeding hairline starts engaging me like he wants a shot at the title.  Blathering about how he can take a punch, and that I should find out by hitting him.  Now I was glad that the lady had come along otherwise I may have given this clown the medicine he desperately craved.  Red Sox suck, you are big but are you tough? blah blah.  I told him I had retired and it was his lucky night.

He got displaced at the bar when he went out for a smoke, so my knuckles breathed a sigh of relief.  The games all continued sucking and as Beckett was drilling Jeter to force in a run I paid the check and got outta Dodge.  I eluded medium on the way out, and had the girl transport me safely home.  It was a triple trainwreck with only the Bruins acquitting themselves acceptably.


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