Alcohol, Panthers Football, and Terrible Metaphors
January 12, 2015 - bbq set
It was an uncharacteristically frail dusk in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. we was headed west on I-40 to join TerribleMetaphorGuy and his wiley organisation for some burgers, brews, and to watch a many critical diversion of a year. I’d already done my array stop during Total Wine where we comparison a 6 container of Blue Moon Farmhouse Red Ale after a accessible businessman gave me a sample. “A 6 container should be all we need, certainly we will wish to expostulate home later.” we suspicion to myself on creation my purchase. we also brought with me a vast bag of kettle chips, and the french onion drop that we wrote about in a past Made from Scratch article; it was a vast hit.
Upon attainment we was treated to a juicy uninformed grilled burger, and some fries from a Five Guys right down a road. we mean, given worry creation your possess fries when Five Guys is RIGHT THERE. Delicious. After a meal, we late to TMG’s artistic male cave, finish with THREE televisions, all tuned to a game, giving everybody a good observation angle and my ADD some critical eye candy.
For a occasion, TMG pennyless out a bottle of Jack Daniels singular barrel. We all had a toast, and sipped down a bit of a well-spoken and sharp nectar. Everyone had a chair right as a Seahawks were using out of a tunnel, watched earnestly by Cam Newton. Things were good.
Then… IT happened.
It was Cam to Kam for a bloody 90 yard touchdown.
“I am turn death. Destroyer of seasons. we have come for your footballs. Give them to me, and master Carroll will be many pleased.” — Kam Chancellor
He mouthed that directly into a camera. we know this, given we saw it on 3 opposite televisions.
The room fell pestilent ill… silent. Excuse me. we scarcely threw a potion bottle, though thankfully remembered we was not in fact during my house. Instead we sat staring, speechless, fixated on a top left dilemma of a screen, anticipating to see that blithe 4 minute word highlighted in yellow… “FLAG”
Alas… it never came. The touchdown will stand… and all of a violent hopes and dreams for Lombardi tranquillity will fall, followed shortly by a clarity of presence and self respect. Those that follow me on Twitter know where a commencement of a finish was…
Welp. Tater and TMG keepin it real. pic.twitter.com/kldxugxb41
— Erik Sommers (@Tater596) January 11, 2015
Yes. Those are dual impossibly full rocks eyeglasses of liqour. But not usually any liqour… usually one liqour could equal a turn of unhappiness and despair. We indispensable a tipple brewed in a deepest guts of a pits of hell, strong by a souls of Ryan Leaf and Albert Haynesworth, and with usually a spirit of children’s tears for a finishing note.
Just a steer of this tab repulses me now. The dragon on a front competence as good be Kam Chancellor jumping over a descent line to retard margin goals.
But there we were. Holding dual full eyeglasses of this demon piss, examination a final moments of a mellow play out. Normal people would commend a blunder of their ways after one glass. They would set that dull potion down and go to nap or play video games. But not us… no no no. Because then… a ANALYSIS began.
Not a one on TV, that we had prolonged given cut off, though rather a research of 3 liquored adult hardcore Panther fans station around a pool list personification cutthroat, and perplexing to figure out who to censure for a loss.
I, for one, motionless to take a easy approach out and pin a detriment on Jeff Otah. TMG and his crony both looked during me strange, and we looked behind during them… we arrange of like were buffering, all perplexing to routine what we had usually heard. Then it strike me…
“I meant Byron Bell. Shit. Not Jeff Otah.”
And there was most rejoicing. We all motionless we indispensable a shot to commemorate a impulse Tater confused Byron Bell reasonably with Jeff Otah. So we had a shot of “Slow and Low” Rye Whiskey. But afterwards of course, while stability to play pool, we motionless that we could eventually snippet a teams failings behind to Jeff Otah in a 6 degrees of Kevin Bacon kind of way, except, with Jeff Otah… so unequivocally usually 6 degrees of Bacon.
All a while… a conditions continued to deteriorate. TMG done a terrible mistake of severe me to make formidable billiards shots while intoxicated, unbeknownst to him that we am a freaking pool shark when I’ve had a few too many. So we done a formidable shot…. we had a shot. we done another unequivocally formidable shot… another shot. This time of something that we can usually report as a Bailey’s Irish Cream clone. Awful decision. Like, throwing too late on an out track awful.
Then we won a game, a final shot of a evening, and a genocide of a final patches of self honour we had left. Here is some pledge dungeon phone footage of a rest of a evening.
Of course, no one was pushing anywhere, so we all late to a particular corners of a universe for slumber.
When we woke a subsequent morning and stumbled into a kitchen in hunt of water, we found TMG staring blankly out a window, clutching a Dickey’s BBQ crater filled to a margin with H2O in a same demeanour that a really cold particular grips a comfortable crater of coffee. we procured my possess cup, and we stood lazily over a half eaten bag of potato chips deliberating a merits of a Taco Bell run. The usually difference we spoke of a prior night’s diversion were confirmation that it happened, and that James Dator had created a good essay on a approaching Cam Newton narrative.
Ultimately, there was no Taco Bell run, and it was time for me to get behind to Greensboro and take a shower. So TMG and we shook hands, and motionless we’d do this again subsequent season, with a lot reduction crappy liqour. But as we walked to my car, we stopped halfway, and it all strike me…
I incited around quickly, and TerribleMetaphorGuy had vanished. The residence with a pleasing male cavern was left as well, like dirt in a wind, and transposed by a run down deserted tobacco warehouse. we slid open a doorway and ran inside… a room was empty, solely for one thing, a #10 Carolina Panthers jersey with a name “Edwards” on a back. we knelt over it… tears flourishing adult in a corners of my eyes as we reached out and picked it up. Memories of good times. we stood, and something fell out…
A Key. Like a motel key… with a vast red vinyl tab unresolved from it… and on it was printed a vast white number.. “1”
I froze. An unsettling feeling came over me, like we was being watched. we incited around slowly, and there stood Cam Newton, holding an axe.
I screamed… NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!
All he did, was peep that vast white feign smile… and as he pulled behind a mattock to swing, he quietly said…