Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Champions > Celebrities

  In life, there always seems to be a natural order to everything, with Darwin’s theory of evolution and survival of the fittest at the forefront of this ideology.  In my opinion, the order of superiority amongst living beings goes something like this: Champions, Men, Inferior Men, Animals, Insects, Women.  Once an initial order is established, we can also rank each subject in different categories, like FHM’s Sexiest Women in the World or NatGeo’s Deadliest Animals.  Now, I’m not trying to get too deep in philosophy, but there is a group of people who seem to be ranked above everyone else: celebrities. 
             Everyone loves celebrities.  People will flock to their favorite actor’s movies or stand outside in pouring rain for hours to watch their favorite band’s concert.  Celebrities invoke a reaction from their fans that is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.  When Eli Manning threw the Super Bowl winning touchdown pass, Giant’s fans across the country acted like rabid dogs, and you can be sure there wasn’t a dry pussy in the crowd when the Beatles performed on the Ed Sullivan Show.  One time, I had the honor of hanging with a couple celebrities, or should I say they were honored to be amongst a Champion.

              It was a cool autumn night in the hills of Oneonta, a night that started like most other nights for me.  I was hanging out at my apartment, winning freestyle battles and dominating beer pong without a partner, when I got a text message from a friend.  According to the text, the band OAR was in town and they were going to be hanging out at the bar I frequent.  I didn’t give a fuck.  I continued my beer pong game and kept pounding my Jack and Coke side-drink when I got another text from a different friend.  According to this text, my friend got his hands on some PED's.

              At the time I didn't realize the weight of the situation - but with that text message the three puzzle pieces needed for a Championship-winning night fell into place: Me being in a situation with a large audience (OAR at the bar), me having PED's and alcohol, and me being a Champion.

              Anyways, while I was waiting for my friend to get to my apartment I continued my streak of landslide beer pong victories.  When he finally showed up, I got so excited I sank my opponents last cups in succession, then threw the remaining ball so hard at his face he felt like an innocent bystander after a Michael Boley interception.

After doing a little wheeling and dealing, I had what I wanted and I cleared everyone out of my apartment.  I was all ready to taste my new purchase when my phone rang.  It was the kid who texted me earlier about OAR.
            “What?” I asked in the most exaggeratedly annoyed voice of all time.

            “Wer'e comin’ to get you to go chill with OAR at the bar,” he responded.  “Where have you been man?”

            “Bro, you know I was at the pregame for Happy Hour before I went to the pregame for the party before the bar.”

           “Whatever, we’ll be there in five minutes.”

            With only five minutes left to finish my beers, I quickly assembled a makeshift funnel and chugged.  I frantically searched my apartment for a plain white tee shirt so I could write “Fuck OAR!” on it with a sharpie, but my efforts were futile.  Champions don’t do laundry, they buy new apparel when soiling occurs. Hashtag Stay woke. 

            Finally, I heard my friend’s car horn, so I ran outside and we headed to our destination.  When we pulled into the parking lot, I waited to go inside so I could sample the product.  I did a bump, and it was so good that I sat in the car for a few minutes and looked like a kid watching Star Wars for the first time before I proceeded into the bar.

As soon as I got in, I plowed my way to the bar so I could get a drink.  While I waited for the bartender, I examined my surroundings and realized that the band’s presence had caused the bar to be completely packed.  I decided it would be best to order two Double Jack and Cokes instead of one single mix, because who knows when I would be able to shimmy my way to the bar again.  Once I had both drinks in hand, my eyes found the prize.  OAR was at the back bar, but fully accessible to anybody who dared to go up to them.
I started heading in their direction, looking like Michael Strahan doing the “swim move” to get through the crowd.  I completely ignored everybody trying to say hi to me, and I suddenly realized I was ridiculously fucked up.  My alcohol-induced double vision made OAR look like a 10-piece band made up of five identical twins.  Luckily, double-vision doesn’t impair a Champion, it just makes me think I have twice as many fans giving me a standing ovation.
When I was a couple feet away from them, I realized one of the band members was ordering everyone around him shots.  I pushed a couple girls out of the way so my face was literally one inch away from the face of the bassist's.  We made eye contact, and he obviously averted his gaze before I did. 
Champion 1, Celebrity 0. 
I grabbed two of the shots off the bar that OAR ordered and threw them back.  I pointed out how I have a limitless supply of championship rings and MVP trophies, but they don’t necessarily translate to actual wealth.  Then I screamed, “THANKS FOR THE FUCKIN’ SHOTS!” right in their faces.

 Apparently, they thought I was being disrespectful, so I was ushered away against my will by a group of large men.  I didn’t really care at the time, because I already finished my two Jack and Cokes and coincidentally, the two ruffians dropped me off right at the main bar. 

 So after I ordered some more drinks, two things happened that pretty much sealed the deal for my night.  First, someone at the bar told me that OAR stands for “Of A Revolution.”  Second, I noticed a pattern within the female populace of the venue.  I realized that all of the girls around me at the bar were very unattractive.  On the other hand, I observed that as you got closer to the band, the girls became more attractive.  Let me present this visual aid to enhance my findings:

Allow me to clarify – if a champion is around unattractive girls for too long he starts to feel like a Vampire exposed to ultra-violet sunlight.  My skin literally starts to melt.  So, in my drunk rage, I plowed through the crowd and was right next to OAR again.  My blackout was about to claim my night, and one of the band members was raising his glass, presumably to make some kind of toast.  When he started to speak, I interrupted him by screaming “OF A REVOLUTION!”  He shrugged it off, so I stepped closer, and as he opened his mouth to try and speak a second time, I interrupted again screaming “OF A REVOLUTION! YEAH!”  
Then, I just started screaming, “OF A FUCKIN REVOLUTION!” no matter who was trying to talk, and next thing I know I’m kicked out of the bar.  I still had the PEDs so my night didn’t end, but it is full of too many black holes for me to recollect.   
This was the first of many celebrity encounters I have had, and let me assure you, no lessons were learned.  I will say this though: I’m sure OAR are a bunch of good guys and I hear for celebrities they are actually very down to Earth, but no one is safe when the Champions come out to play. So what I am trying to convey with this disclaimer is FUCK YOU OAR. 

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