Wednesday, August 17, 2011


I recently wore this shirt to my local. The bar is a far cry from Mos Eisley, but you are not going to find anything served with a side of citrus either. It reminds me of the inside of a lung: it is dark and nicotine stained, and on a Saturday night it could be described as "phlegmy", but you know, in the good way. Not unlike the blind date my mother set up for me in twelfth grade with the niece of the deli-counter girls friends neighbor: it has "a great personality and character", and after a few beers I had a good time, but it ain't much to look at. 

As my 2 cohorts, the Intrepid Shapiro and Fearless O'Toole, split up in search of suitable seating and suitably intoxicated Little People respectively (it's his thing, I don't judge), I ordered us a round of beers from the weathered and cragged barmaid tending the only just slightly less weathered and cragged bar. As I patiently awaited the foamy nectar of the gods to be slowly poured from the tap by the bitter yet buxom single mother of 2, this rumpled heap slouched in the corner, with one eye closed and the other powerfully squinted in my direction, slurred "Robin is a dick". 

What was confusing was he said this like he was expecting me to debate this point. This is a widely regarded given, Robin is indeed a dick. "Yes, yes he is. You're quite right" I smiled and politely replied, ensuring I didn't make eye-contact. I read somewhere once that maintaining direct eye contact with a feral beast is considered an act of aggression. "What did you call me?" Popeye quietly spat through gritted yellowing teeth. I stood my ground. This was done less out of stalwart manly manliness and more so due to the fact that my beer had yet to arrive in my sweaty slightly trembling hand. In an unwise attempt to establish dominance I turned to face the drunken puddle. And that's when this abhorration of nature unfurled himself. My neck craned as I followed his ascent to his full 6'4" and he clenched his fists. Jesus, even his ragged fingernails had muscles! 

Taking in his calloused knuckles, sloping brow, and absence of a neck I quickly determined that this man suffered from a decided imbalance of hormone. I was certain the address on his NRA card simply declared "Up A Tree". 

I quickly surveyed my situation, summing up this drunken monolith of a man and noticing for the first time that this particular model came with 3 interchangeable toadies skulking in his ginormous shadow. "What did you call me, pussy?" he stupidly asked again. I scanned for backup, but the Intrepid Shapiro and Fearless O'Toole were nowhere to be seen. Of course. Discretion being the better part of valor I thought maybe to give him the benefit of the doubt: it was loud, he was drunk, maybe he didn't hear me properly. I'm an affable fellow, I don't consciously offend big men like this. I opened my cotton mouth, intending to quell the situation with an offer to buy the giant and his motley crew a round of fermented hops and barley, but Kong cut me off, shoving a hairy sausage-link like digit in my face, "Robin is a dick and so are you and Batfag". Bat...Fag? Was this neandrathal actually trying to antagonize me by hurling slings and arrows about fictional comicbook characters? Batfag? BATFAG!  Much louder and much much slower I succinctly clarified what I was trying to say originally: "You. Are. A. Huge. Douchebag". I may be affable but I tend to consistently err on the side of umsmart.

The madness and mayhem that ensued defies description. Well at least by me as I was somewhat preoccupied. Shapiro and O'Toole seemed to be engaging in a running commentary as they casually supped upon the beer that I had procured for us, starting up the chant "Two men enter, one man leaves!"

Afterwards, as they dusted me off...actually mopped me up would be more accurate...they defended their inaction thusly: 1) Shapiro- someone had to guard the beer, and 2)O'Toole- what did I think was going to happen when I decided to sport a bright orange shirt prominently featuring Robin in mid-pirouette.

After much discourse and deliberation, and many fine ales, I came to the conclusion that both were very valid and acceptable points.

Robin actually is a Dick.


  1. That shirt is quite oranage. I think I may beat you up now even if you don't wear it again.

  2. Silly rabbit, Batfags are for kids...