As she fired up the expresso drip, the snow was violent. Like we were in some arctic hell. As this was happening the bar was empty. One strange man sitting at the bar reading a paper. I asked "is this the usual clientele here?" She said reluctantly "yes it is."
I slowly read the December issue of the american GQ, the place started to fill. The environment was that of a nursing home, but it was nine in the morning, so it was understandable.
A couple of soccer fans sat at the end of the bar. They seem exited for some sort of soccer game. Watching sports seem to bring the primal testosterone from every man. Yes, I too, indulge in the occasional american football or rugby game. I find myself shouting at the television and throwing stuff. But this is in the privacy of my own home watching it on my fathers 50' plasma t.v., which I should take from him soon.
But lets get to the crux shall we. This bar empty, other than the patrons getting coffee or some crisps, is void of any noise till one something happened with that soccer game.
"Oh man, oh god, oh oh oh!?!?!"
I mean what the fuck? Are we fucking tenting for a soccer game on the boob tube? Please, leave that type of behavior at home, or come to the pub when your fellow soccer people are there. I mean really? He sounded like a male porn star at the height of his career awaiting retirement.
I tend to make love with what I'm watching, as if I had respect for the television, as if she was a timid girl fresh out of the classroom.
These men pounce at the sight of a soccer penalty. They fuck. They act as if the television is a thing to ravaged. They should know better.
So here's a little advice, if you cant hold your load, save it for your home television please.