Frenchy's Rant

Many times when something interesting or funny happens, people who know about my blog will say, “Oh! That’s great! You should put that on your blog!” Most of those times the event is only funny if you were there, and would take longer to explain than it’s worth.

Last night was probably one of those times, but nothing else really interesting has happened since our little field trip to the desert last week, and I have a few pictures from last night, and a lame-o shitty blog post is better than a picture only post, so… on with the story.

This week is Armageddon, the WWE’s hundredth Pay Per View of the year (it seems). Armageddon is in the lovely city of Pittsburgh. When I think of Pittsburgh, I think of old steel mill workers that love their Steelers and Penguins and drink Yuengling by the case while eating their Primanti Brothers cheese steak sammiches, call each other ‘Yins‘ instead of ‘Youse‘ then go home and debate which to brush first, the tooth or the mullet.

Some times a night out is just a night out, other times a night out can lead to life changing realizations. Tonight fell into the latter category.

After the set day ended, Abi and I ventured out into the cold Pittsburgh sleet. We stopped first for dinner at Nakama Sushi bar. Not only was the food excellent, but the entertainment was top notch too. By entertainment, I mean both the non-stop flow of absolutely stunning women (no mullets, full sets of teeth and everything) and the magician that was roaming the inside of the bar, performing amazing card tricks for a couple of bucks a pop.

I won’t bore with the details, since it’s one of those you-had-to-be there kind of things, but suffice to say a good time was had by all.

Next stop on the tour was down the street at a place called Fat Head’s. Fat Head’s is about as close to heaven as I’ll ever come, with more than two hundred different types of beer available. The small upstairs section had the widest selection of bottles I’ve ever seen. For $10, you could put together your very own six pack. As my ever-expanding waistline proves, I’ve been a fan of beer for the past twenty or so years, and I’d never seen hardly ANY of the multitude of beers in the fridge.

Heaven is a cold refrigerator in da Burgh

The entertainment in Fat Head’s was at least as good, if not better than the sushi restaurant, though minus the magician. After a few glasses of the aptly named ‘Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride’ – a potent potion made of 89% deliciousness and 11% alcohol, it was time to leave.

Reeling from my Wild Ride, yet still up for more liver abuse, Abi and I went into a third, decidedly less upscale bar, for two reasons. First and most important, we wanted to see if the entertainment was on par with the previous two establishments, and if not, we wanted to try and find at least one mullet headed Steelers fan.

It was in this establishment, properly lubricated by more than enough pints, I had what turns out to be probably the worst realization of my life. As I looked around the room at the hundreds of young, beautiful, mullet-free people out having a good time, it hit me – I was the oldest person in the entire bar.

How sad. This realization was so depressing, I had to leave.

Then, right outside the bar, I saw it. The vision of my possible but now-not-too-distant post-retirement occupation.

It was soooo funny, but maybe you had to be there.

A random conversation I overheard the other day, picked up and left off in the middle:

Hipster Guy Number One
(pointing at the airport’s ‘Handicapped Only’ security line): “Dude, we shoulda rented a wheelchair! Then we’d be through security in no time!”

Hipster Guy Number Two: “Yeah, but that line’s for physical cripples only, not mental cases like you.”

Hipster One: “Dude, listen. I went to Kings Island one day this summer when there were like forty thousand people in the park. The lines were seriously like two hours long. Ridiculous! So, for only five bucks, I rented a wheelchair, and I got to ride every single ride like twice while all those other suckers waited. It was sweet.”

Hipster Two
(now disinterested, gazing at his iPhone): “Oh sweet. Hey, which is better, banana bread or carrot bread?”

Hipster One: “Banana.”

Hipster Two: “Sweet. How do you spell banana?”

Hipster One: “Uhh, I think it’s B-A-N-N-A-N-N-A.”