“Just confirmed, debate #2 is a just a fist fight in a Chili's parking lot.” Some guy on the Internet—yesterday.
The above remark was made in response to the first Presidential debate Tuesday. It was treated as an astonishing display of wit when it was Tweeted yesterday, which only goes to show that most of the people on Twitter have never been in a fight in a bar parking lot.
Neither has Donald Trump, of course, so it doesn’t prevent them from being braver than that colossal mango pussy, but it demonstrates that the Twitterverse has no idea what bar parking lot to go to if they’re cruising for a bruising. Chili’s is definitely not it. Chili’s is for people who think fried cheese is gourmet food and that Shock Top is a craft beer. You can say what you want about their taste, and say it to their face, but you will seldom provoke them into taking it outside.
I worked for twenty years in the bar business one way or another in my carefree youth, for the money and also to seek the company of the flashy and often quite dangerous women who habituate it, and I can describe exactly the kind of bar that you want to hit if you’re ready to rumble. Its name is usually that of a person, from Al’s to Zach’s. Its interior decoration is entirely provided by beer and liquor manufacturers, with an occasional contribution by Harley-Davidson. There is a jukebox with at least two Guns ‘n Roses songs on it. Carcinogenic stuffing spills out of the split vinyl of its barstools, and there are numerous low tables in its dark corners where such items as baggie and handjobs may be exchanged.
It is, in short, a dive bar. I only go to them nowadays if I’m dragged there by my PhD holding Significant Other, who claims to love dive bars, which I feel are only enjoyable if you like to watch other people slowly poison themselves with liquor and crystal meth. “I used to get paid for being in places like this,” I whine, until she lets me escape to someplace with a better beer menu.
But you can get in a fight there. Sometimes you have to stay until someone on their sixth shot, fourth beer and seventh line of coke decides they don’t like the way you look, but if you want to accelerate the process, you can start criticizing someone’s date or the local football team.
Obviously, a joint like this is way beneath the dignity of a President and a wannabe President, but apparently so was the first debate, which I didn’t watch because my hand automatically hits the mute button anytime I hear Trump talking. Can’t help it any more than Pavlov’s dog can keep from drooling.
But a fistfight sounds good. On a boxing ring, of course. Or mixed-martial arts in an octagon. Or how about this: Each candidate gets a firm grip on each other’s hair and pulls. Whoever’s hair comes off first is the loser.
I think Biden’s odds in that match approach 100%. What do you think, Nate Silver?
The above remark was made in response to the first Presidential debate Tuesday. It was treated as an astonishing display of wit when it was Tweeted yesterday, which only goes to show that most of the people on Twitter have never been in a fight in a bar parking lot.
Neither has Donald Trump, of course, so it doesn’t prevent them from being braver than that colossal mango pussy, but it demonstrates that the Twitterverse has no idea what bar parking lot to go to if they’re cruising for a bruising. Chili’s is definitely not it. Chili’s is for people who think fried cheese is gourmet food and that Shock Top is a craft beer. You can say what you want about their taste, and say it to their face, but you will seldom provoke them into taking it outside.
I worked for twenty years in the bar business one way or another in my carefree youth, for the money and also to seek the company of the flashy and often quite dangerous women who habituate it, and I can describe exactly the kind of bar that you want to hit if you’re ready to rumble. Its name is usually that of a person, from Al’s to Zach’s. Its interior decoration is entirely provided by beer and liquor manufacturers, with an occasional contribution by Harley-Davidson. There is a jukebox with at least two Guns ‘n Roses songs on it. Carcinogenic stuffing spills out of the split vinyl of its barstools, and there are numerous low tables in its dark corners where such items as baggie and handjobs may be exchanged.
It is, in short, a dive bar. I only go to them nowadays if I’m dragged there by my PhD holding Significant Other, who claims to love dive bars, which I feel are only enjoyable if you like to watch other people slowly poison themselves with liquor and crystal meth. “I used to get paid for being in places like this,” I whine, until she lets me escape to someplace with a better beer menu.
But you can get in a fight there. Sometimes you have to stay until someone on their sixth shot, fourth beer and seventh line of coke decides they don’t like the way you look, but if you want to accelerate the process, you can start criticizing someone’s date or the local football team.
Obviously, a joint like this is way beneath the dignity of a President and a wannabe President, but apparently so was the first debate, which I didn’t watch because my hand automatically hits the mute button anytime I hear Trump talking. Can’t help it any more than Pavlov’s dog can keep from drooling.
But a fistfight sounds good. On a boxing ring, of course. Or mixed-martial arts in an octagon. Or how about this: Each candidate gets a firm grip on each other’s hair and pulls. Whoever’s hair comes off first is the loser.
I think Biden’s odds in that match approach 100%. What do you think, Nate Silver?
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