I lost my social calendar somewhere back in 2013-ish. I had been misplacing it for several years, but it was right around that time when I lost the damn thing for good. It’s not like I became a shut-in though, because I still had to work. I kinda envy shut-ins. They get to stay up late and sleep in and they have a really convenient excuse for getting pizza delivery ten times a week because they’re shut-ins!
It’s not like I haven’t gotten my social butterfly on from time to time. But it’s been a while since I went out with the fellas- as in plural. . as in bar fight ready, bail bond approved. This fact hadn’t occurred to me until the other day when a fella I work with invited me out to Buffalo Wild Wings.
If you wanted to create a caricature of a sports bar, Buffalo Wild Wings would be laying it on a little thick. It’s that predictable. I have been to this establishment a couple times, and yet this small sample size somehow resonates, as if I am battling PTSD from time spent in an interment camp. Okay, maybe it’s not quite that bad, but it’s also not worthy of those hilarious commercials, at all. Because I would be excited about going to that Buffalo Wild Wings.
Doing a food critique of the place is like doing a movie review of an Adam Sandler flick- it’s pointless to be truthful because they’re going to make a shitload of money regardless of what you say about it. Never mind that their wings are bonier than Bethenny Frankel on a crash diet and possess a meat to sauce ratio of 1.5 to 14. And let’s forget the blaring crush of sound that assaults you before you even make it inside the place. It’s the kind of loud that would make Helen Keller exclaim “What the FUCK is making all that noise!?”
So when I was asked to come on out to the B Dub Dub, I had to respectfully decline the invitation. It’s nothing personal, mind you. I dig this individual just fine and I think we carry on rather intellectual conversations that don’t necessarily have to be about sports. But that’s not how things work in a group dynamic, involving dudes.
It’s a scientific fact that with every dude you add to the group, the collective IQ decreases by a third. So a quartet is already operating at a deficit, and with each new dude, it just gets dumber. And more dangerous. You don’t have to be Nostradamus to predict what is gonna happen when you bring a dozen fellas together . . . of differing ages and football team allegiances, and then add beer. With the first “Woohoo!”, you have reached the intersection of Stupid and Shit.
I’d much rather watch the game on TV, at home . . with pizza delivery. That way I can keep looking for my social calendar.