…a Fenwick Island Bar.
I pass out when I drink. A lot. No, I don’t pass out when I drink a lot; rather, whenever I’m drinking I tend to pass out. Well, okay. I guess I do drink a lot in the process, so those first two sentences worked on both levels. The point is that I’ve made a bit of a habit of “falling asleep” in spots both exotic and pathetic, and have been doing so for quite some time.
A while back I got the idea that I should create a blog called The Wandering Jew, which would be nothing more than images of me and my drunk ass hunched over in various, pitiful displays. But then I realized, Hey, why limit myself to one topic when I can also write about fantasy football and how much I hate The Edge?
So, not wanting to give up the idea, I now give you the first (of many, I’m certain) installment of “Tales of the Wandering Jew.”
The above photograph was taken at High Stakes, a shitball sports bar in Fenwick Island, DE (right down the road from Ocean City, MD). My sister-in-law’s family owns a little beach house in Fenwick, an unassuming place we all of us visit annually. Last October I took a trip to the beach house with my brother and five other friends. Fortunately for us it was amid the World Series, thus giving us the opportunity to watch the Phillies drop knowledge on the Tampa Bay Rays and their “loyal” band(wagon) of fans.
Wanting to soak up some of the local atmosphere, we decided to drive to the closest sports bar, which was about a half-mile away. Taking full advantage of a pool bet I’d won against my buddy, Matt, I took this opportunity to introduce him to his outfit for the evening. See, he and I (like my buddy Chuck and I) tend to make bets on various games/activities from time to time, with the stakes being nothing more than humiliation. Well, Matt owed me on a pool bet we’d made a while back, and it was time to collect. I managed to find him a sharp sweater that was not only colorful, but a babe magnet. He took it like a man. An old, decaying, geriatric golfer sort of man, but a man nontheless.
Seriously, do not bet with me. This is your fate, Losers.
(And if you still think you’ve got nothing to lose by betting against me, just ask Chuck how it feels.)
It must have been Game 3 or 4 that evening, and Phillies fans were at High Stakes in droves. Okay, maybe not droves, but every fan in the bar was certainly rooting for the Phillies. Or whiskey. In any event, let’s just say there was a lot of class in that joint, particularly the 19-year-old girl who we were convinced was not only a prostitute, but who left at 20-minute intervals with her Thug-Life wannabe pimp to give blowjobs to the locals in the tiny beach community. And when I say she was a prostitute, what I really mean is that she was a prostitute. I’m sure of it. To make things even better, the older bartender/owner of the joint was not only a friend of hers who knew she was underage, but was feeding her drinks. Now I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being the town’s 19-year-old, drunken cumdumpster giving handjobs in the alley behind the local watering hole. I just think there might be other options out there.
Not the actual hooker and pimp, but, sadly, close enough.
And as much as I was fascinated by this princess of a woman, perhaps my favorite High Stakes incident took place right before the ballgame started, during the singing of the national anthem. Look, if you attend a sporting event in person, yes, you remove your hat and show a little respect as “The Star Spangled Banner” is belted out. However, when you’re in a dank shithole with toothless lowlifes who blow their weekly paychecks on scratch-off tickets, all bets are off. So imagine my surprise when I not only witnessed some of these folks removing their hats during the anthem (again, they were watching it on TV from a bar nowhere near the actual game), but was called out by the beligerent wife of one of these yokels, who chastised me for not removing my hat. I, of course, was outraged, and let her know as much. Umm, we’re in bar, dumbass. Who am I showing respect to, exactly? The 19-year-old whore, or the old man with his head on the bar? I’m confused.
Anyway, several hours (and several drinks) later, I found myself sitting next to the lone video game in the joint, some version of electronic Baggo. Sure enough, the prostitute was, well, a pro at it. (Hmm, come here much?) At some point my eyes gave way, and my last beer became more of a hood ornament than something I might consume.
I’ll be right here. Resting my eyes. Just for a second. Snore.
On a side note we returned to High Stakes the following night, and you’ll never guess who was there? Yep, her again. So if you’re ever in Delaware and in need of a laugh, a honkey, a beer and an STD, look up High Stakes. Tell ’em the 19-year-old’s pimp sent you, Yo!
That’s it for the first installment. Until next time, have at it, you vultures!
* Thanks to J. for snapping the picture.