Last night I dropped by Picasso’s: An Urban Bistro to torment Theodore the bartender.
“Hello, treasonous fascist-punk,” I said.
“Hello, terrorist-coddling leftist cat-radical,” he replied.
“A profitable weekend here at Picasso’s?” I asked.
“Why of course! Our wise city and state leaders understand the importance of amateur athletics to our economy! We had a special this weekend — Mountain Dew Grog. That’s Mountain Dew with rum and cinnamon. We had a big vat of it boiling over an open fire here behind the counter — it was a smash!”
“That’s fascinating,” I said, rolling my eyes.
A slurred voice emerged from a dark corner of the room: “Go team!”
“Dear fellow,” I said to the owner of the voice, a doughball of a man wearing so much collegiate attire that he gave the effect of a circus wagon, “the college basketball tournament is over. Granted, the city is still a hotbed of amateur politicians and business leaders, but the boys in shorts are gone.”
“Shorts! Shorts! I used to wear shorts!” he exclaimed loudly, then began sobbing. “Go team,” he mumbled softly.
“Go team! That’s right! I’ll tell you what team I’m behind!” Theodore spat. “I’m behind the Bush team! I’m behind the Marines and the Army and the Air Force and all of ’em! I support our valiant boys because they kill those insane towelheads, those Muslimaniacs!”
“Theodore, if you’re so enthusiastic about the illegal, homicidal and disastrous invasion of Iraq, why aren’t you over there ‘fighting,’ as murder is called?” I asked.
“It is more important for a thinker like myself to stay here on the homefront and help keep morale high!” he spat.
“My man,” I said, handing him a piece of paper, “if you ever decide you want to be a ‘hero’ instead of a chickenhawk, here’s the phone number of your local armed forces recruiter — I think just about anyone can make their team these days!”