My belly has never met a chicken wing it has not liked. From my first experience at Tully’s in Frederick, Maryland, I have been hooked on any drumstick doused in sauce. You could say it was love at first bite (thanks, I’ll be here all night, don’t forget to tip your waiter). When it comes to my body, the stomach, not the mind, is in charge of running the ship.
So, when my friend Matt invited me to the Wild Wing Café to watch the first round of the NFL playoffs, I said yes without thinking. It did not matter I had already polished of a hefty dinner and desert only an hour earlier. The Slayer, Old Smokey and Chipotle Jolt were calling my name. A quick stop by the house to switch out my limbs and put on my hollow leg and I was raring to go.
A formula does not exist in selecting the right sauce. Call me a man of diversity because I do not discriminate. Any flavor is good with me. However, I try to live by the old adage of “the hotter the better” or as my college buddy Casey Glass was famous for sniffling, “wings aren’t good unless they make you cry.”
To wash down the goodness, I had the waitress keep the Diet Cokes flowing. Stop your snickering. After all, a man has to watch his figure at a wing joint. Largely due to having the smallest bladder known to man, nature begins to call close to halftime so I made my way to the little boy’s room.
Almost instantaneously, I felt a sense of relief. This comes from the realization the bathroom is completely empty. No need to worry about having to engage in any awkward conversations. I had my choice of two urinals. Having recently studied and passed my man card exam by the skin of my teeth, I head directly to the urinal closest to the wall as it provides some sense of security and shielding.
Then it happens. The door swings open alerting me I have company and judging by the smell, very drunk company. There is a vacant stall so I still have an outside shot at peeing in peace. Silly me. I forgot how my luck works. Oblivious to bathroom etiquette, the guy stumbles up to the urinal next to me. Maybe this will be it. Nope, wrong again. He commits the cardinal sin of attempting to start a conversation. Unlike women where the bathroom is such the community hub you bring at least 5 friends with you, talking to strangers in the men’s room is completely off limits.
I now find myself in quite the predicament. On one hand, if I engage him in conversation then I am encouraging his lack of respect for man laws. I hesitate for a second, but am suddenly confronted with the fact that these 30 days I am now in deal with me being socially stunted. My first opportunity at change has just presented itself in all its’ inebriated glory.
Drunk Dude: “Hey, how’s it going, man…?”
Me: “Um, doing good. Can’t complain….”
Drunk Dude: “Sweet, what do you think of the game…?”
Me: “Uh..Hope the Colts win… can’t believe LT is out…again.”
Drunk Dude: “Did you see that catch in the Cards game?”
Me: “Yeah, Fitz has the sickest hands in the NFL.”
Drunk Dude: “So, how was your New Year’s?”
Me: “Um…well…okay. Pretty normal. Barely stayed awake to see ball drop…”
Drunk Dude: “Brother, hold on….this guy next to me keeps talking.”
My new bathroom buddy tilts his head in my direction and I can’t help but notice the Bluetooth hanging from his ear. So, looks like I am the one who wasn’t obeying bathroom etiquette after all. Darn you stupid technology for foiling my plans of starting out these 30 days strong.