Talkin' Jersey Blues

I was sitting in a particularly divey bar, in a fairly grim part of town, trying to watch the Mets game and trying not to watch the Rutgers women's basketball game that was on every other TV in the city. Warrant was blasting on the Jukebox. I turned to my friend and said, "Who the fuck actually put this on?" I didn't think anything could suck more than the last song (some Nickelback clone). He informed me that it was the guy sitting about 3 feet away from me in a leather jacket, too tight jeans with a mullet-ish thing playing air guitar. He definitely heard some portion of my derision and I think was contemplating "stepping" to me. Of course, I would have served that bitch like a pastrami on rye.
Anyway, I tried to get back to the game but then this fucking idiot sitting right next to me started talking my ear off. He asked me if I was a Met fan (which obviously I was), and I got the feeling he was setting me up for something. He asked me if I hated the Yankees, "Uhh yeah kinda" I replied.

"But not the fans right?" He asked.

A pregnant pause ensued that any marginally sober person would've interpreted as a "YES!" Luckily for me this fucking loser was three sheets to the wind.

I observed his obvious characteristics: 1. Drunk off his ass. 2. In his element whereas I was out of mine. 3. Lots of tattoos. 4. Probably some kind of knife or boxcutter on him or in his jacket.

"No," I answered. A baldfaced lie. I fucking hate Yankee fans and this guy was exhibit A,B, and C of why.

Anyway, to make a long story short (because I'm tired of typing) I actually managed to avoid a confrontation. Give myself a smiley! @#$@#

P.S. My TV is broken. That is the only reason you're reading this.