Good Morning Children of Caprice,

Well another Super Bowl has come and gone and I for one am grateful.  Two weeks of bluster and bullshit about a football game is way more than enough!  Be that as it may, I was pleased to see ‘Mr. Wonderful’ and ‘Yoda’ taste defeat at the hands of a guy who spends his days ‘gaming’ with other nerds. 

Humiliation comes in many forms and not limited to worldwide audiences of 100 million!  Humility is generally served with “A fine Chianti and Fava beans” as one’s heart is ripped from its natural resting place.  With some kind of Cosmic arrangement humility is normally doled out just when one thinks his/her fecal matter smells of lavender; pleasant to all it encounters.  The ‘Bagged One’ has a lovely turn of phrase to describe this phenomenon calling it “Flying up their own asshole.”  Excogitation is painful at best.  This is why it’s easier to rehash or resurrect an old idea because it’s a ‘no risk’ proposition.  New and brilliant is reserved for those yet to suffer humiliation.  As we all know it’s just a matter of time.

This was never truer than over the weekend.  The football game aside, (these millionaires will no doubt recover and move on) there was an ugly incident involving Cush’s big night out.  Given the thumbs up from mama, Cush took advantage of Blondie’s Super Bowl bash where one could order anything from the menu and an open bar from 4:00 PM until the end of the game, all for $35!  To most ‘Teamsters,’ it’s tantamount to double secret triple overtime paid under the table!  The innocent Polish proprietors had no idea who they were dealing with as Cush downed 5 (count em 5) French Dip sandwiches, a bottle and one half of Crown Royal, and nearly a case of Budweiser. 

Nobody was prepared for this level of carnage.  I asked one of the ‘Pollock’s’ if he made any money from his little soiree’ and all he could do was muster a wry smile while shaking his head no.  Evidently they lost their asses and to a man blame Cush, JJ, and Roger the ‘hairdresser.’  The little hairdresser spilled more beer than he consumed.  JJ left then returned with his coat to better facilitate carting his beloved grilled chicken sandwiches away by stuffing his pockets.  

Shameful, just shameful was the collective sigh of the remaining patrons left twisting in the wind.  With nothing to eat or drink justice seemed unattainable as they watched the three old farts inhale enough food and drink for 50.  Yet as most of us know one can’t consume that much without consequences.  Sure enough while chomping down his 5th French Dip Cush began to choke on the Dill Pickle.  JJ and the little hairdresser were so busy stuffing themselves they failed to see Cush’s distressed situation.  Unable to speak, Cush stood up signaling anyone that cared of his dire need for oxygen.  Turning blue the other patrons turned away and acted as if they didn’t see him feeling very smug about the changing state of affairs.

Running back to JJ and the little hairdresser still pigging out at ‘curmudgeon corner’ Cush blacked out falling directly on the corner of the bar and self administered the Heimlich maneuver launching the soiled pickle directly into JJ’s beer.  Only then did he look up from his plate and assess the chain of events leading to the desecration of his beer.  “What the f—k” JJ screamed, and turned in unison with the little hairdresser as Cush regained consciousness and faced the hungry patrons.  As if scripted, they began to applaud and whistle jeering all three of them.  Needless to say, all three left in a huff.  Really I’m not making this up.


  • fez

    For god’s sake Zuki how could anyone eat that much and not puke.  This was a general feeling accounts receivable had but have to tell you there’s an air of doubt regarding the accuracy of your accounting.

    • Bagwan

      fez, it is a nice story even if Cush couldn’t get out for the Super Bowl.  But, and this is an important BUT, if the Polacks really did offer a $35 all you can eat and all you can drink special for the Super Bowl knowing that JJ, Zuki and the Cush were going to be there—
      well then Polacks is not only the proper nomenclature but also an accurate description.


    Leave it to our Holy F-er to know the CORRECT politically-INCORRECT nomenclature!

    Hate MOI, hate MOI very much.

  • Bagwan

    First of all it is spelled “Polack” and second of all it is not the preferred nomenclature — Polish-American or in the case of those guys maybe Polish-Plumber.