You already think I'm a bitter man?
Christ--hold on to your hat.

"Go screw, you fucks!" the fat, sweaty Jersey plumber screamed, leaning out the passenger side window of his buddy's Buick. For some reason--a folly of youth, I'd argue--we'd decided to score Giants playoff tickets. We were young: 17, maybe 18. (I'd need to call a "sports person" to check that fact, and "sports people" are too much to take, most days, even in the interest of accuracy.) Gee, we'd thought, going to the big game might be a hoot.

The line of cars wound through the monstrous stadium parking lot. From above, the scene might resemble a child's maze game with a ticket-window destination. We sat for hours, likely drinking some teen girlish liquor...whatever I had in the trunk. Let's say peppermint schnapps. The hours dragged while the line advanced slowly, punctuated by the occasional treat of watching some other weekday drunk urinate on his pal's tire.

We sensed defeat. It was inevitable. We hadn't planned well enough ahead, and we weren't dedicated enough to beat out all the really dedicated fans and yahoos. The tickets were almost gone, and we were still at the ass end of a chump line. Just then, when we'd finally admitted it was time to cut our losses and head home for a good afternoon's sleep, the Buick cruised past. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Go screw, you fucks!" screamed the blue-collar spoilsport. He held forth his tickets for all of us losers to admire.

So. Go screw, you fucks.