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Scrapper
10/07/2008 11:08am,
This column should really be titled “Wandering Monks” for there are two in this tale! Sadly, dear readers, this trip to the nation’s capitol did not involve any hardcore martial arts training for your humble guide on this martial journey. But it did involve hardcore battle in a manner that, dare I say, is more reckless, dangerous, and possibly injurious than any other. It is a noble pursuit that I…er…pursued. It involved sacrifice, brotherhood, selflessness, and ultimate humility. Any of you out there who call yourselves men and warriors know what I’m talking about.

I was a wingman.

Not just any wingman, either. I was wingman for a bald Buddhist at a Moroccan restaurant. It was tough, my friends. This was no “Play pool with the fuglies and feminazi’s while DerAuslander makes a strafing run on the pretty White House intern.” Nay, this was “Try to appear cool in a bullshido T-shirt at an expensive cultural restaurant to deflect one drunk psycho and her wallflower friend so DerAuslander can make time with the pretty photographer chick.”

Perhaps the horror is not apparent to you, gentle souls, who have not been blessed to know the Monk in all his glory. The wandering monk is a hairy 220-lb right-wing gun-toting swamp yankee of Irish and Scot descent. To take me somewhere with “culture” to make small talk with “liberal chicks” is akin to bringing Phrost to the democratic national convention. It’s like bringing HappyOldGuy to an Oklahoma barbecue. It’s like bringing Godzilla to Tokyo.

It ain’t pretty, folks. Are ya getting that?

We did not intend to hit on chicks. I myself am getting married this weekend and have no interest in any women who are not the impending Mrs. Monk. But I’ll be DAMNED if I leave a brother behind! The opening salvo was a bottle of wine. The three lovely ladies were all alone at one end of the restaurant, and DerAuslander felt that an overture of spirits would make them amenable to our company. We went over with no real plan of action, as all three ladies were quite attractive, and DerAus had yet to select his target. I moved into a support formation while initial recon was performed.

We had a photographer, a legal assistant, and a journalist for a pharmaceutical trade publication. After brief conversation, it became apparent that the legal assistant was the party girl of the bunch. She assaulted that bottle of wine like it contained eternal youth. She was loud, aggressive and obviously in need of all the attention she could get. The journalist was a cute little redhead, who seemed to be the shrinking violet of the group, until her 4th glass of wine, and then she came right up to speed. The photographer was the “good girl,” and as DerAuslander and I agreed, the prettiest girl of the bunch.
With the main target assigned, I began to run as much interference as I could. Fortunately, Lebanese beer is .00000032% alchohol, and .000000000000000000000000015% taste, so my wits remained keen despite 6 or 7 beers.

Usually, when one is wingman, you attempt to buy some alone time for the “ace” with the target. This was not physically possible in this environment, so I had to try to get the legal assistant all the attention she needed, while not letting the shrinking violet get too quiet while I was doing it. This left DerAus to entertain the photographer.

I would like to say that I did great under the circumstances. I made maneuvers that Chuck Yaeger would envy. More than once, I put myself directly in the line of fire. I was appropriately liberal, witty but not charming, and quite frankly played a good little Cyrano de Bergerac for my ace. Barring a few bad segue’s, we managed to keep the evening moving along swimmingly. Some truly hilarious moments came up when discussing cars and bullshido. For instance:

Legal Chick: What kind of car do you drive? (not-so-slyly attempting to determine my income bracket)
Wandering Monk: A ’69 Olds Cutlass.
Legal Chick: What’s that?
WM: *Blinks* A 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass S Coupe?
LC: But what is that?
WM: It’s a car they made a long time ago.
LC: I don’t get it.
WM: *Desperately seeking assistance* Uhmm…(to Photographer chick) what do you drive?
PC: a Volkwagen Jetta.
WM: (to LC) you know what that is?
LC: duh!
WM: OK. “Volkwagen” makes the “Jetta,” right? Well in 1969 “Oldmobile” made the “Cutlass.” I own one of those.
LC: Oh, so it’s a car? What’s “Oldsmobile?”
WM: (dies inside and tried to move the conversation along) It‘s big and orange and goes VERY fast.

Even better was DerAuslander explaining Bullshido to the ladies. They were very keen to see DerAus and myself fight, but we declined. It got to a question of stick fighting, and Shrinking violet/journalist chick asks where they get the sticks. The absurdity of the question was simply too much for me and I responded glibly, “from a tree, usually,” eliciting roars of laughter from Photographer Chick and scorn from Legal Chick. Of course the term “hammered” was highly redundant at this point in reference to Legal Chick’s condition, so I did not think much of it.

The good news was at the end of the meal, DerAus had Photographer and Journalist Chick’s numbers, and we had to leave. I shant get into the shenanigans that ensued when we found out that the restaurant did not accept credit cards, and that their ATM machine would not read my card, but I managed to convince them to invoice my company and let us go. Unfortunately, all momentum was lost at that point, and no end game was played.

DerAus and I returned to the Irish pub we met up at for a beer and a recap, and we bump into two more potential ladies there. He zeroes in on “cute little brunette” and I get stuck playing interference on “Brunhilda the drunk married chick.” I did what I could and managed to get the Aus some alone time with his target, but Brunhilda’s husband called demanding she return home. She complied, unfortunately with DerAuslander’s target in tow.

Deciding to call it an evening, we barely make the last train back to where we needed to go, and bump into Brunhilda and her charge again. We managed to make sure they got on the right train (this took some doing!) and I headed my drunk self back to the hotel.
In all, it was a fascinating evening. Much merriment was had, and I was again reminded of good it is to be married and not have to do that crap every night. DerAuslander was a great host, and hopefully next time I can see him successfully complete his mission.

Reflecting upon the evening reminds the Wandering Monk that there are many types,
flavors and varieties of battle, and having skills in all of them makes you a very valuable person; and that there is no greater friend than the mighty wingman.
Remember, brothers, the creed of the wingman:

http://www.moderndrunkardmagazine.com/issues/06_06/images/wingman_creed.jpg

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 11:20am,
Scheisse. It doesn't show the article on my EnV.

Scrapper
10/07/2008 11:22am,
mwahaaha!

It's a good'n!

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 11:23am,
Somebody quote it in a post for me plz!

It is Fake
10/07/2008 11:26am,
Sure


Funny story with lots of words.

Did that help?

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 11:27am,
You son of a bitch...

Scrapper
10/07/2008 11:29am,
This column should really be titled “Wandering Monks” for there are two in this tale! Sadly, dear readers, this trip to the nation’s capitol did not involve any hardcore martial arts training for your humble guide on this martial journey. But it did involve hardcore battle in a manner that, dare I say, is more reckless, dangerous, and possibly injurious than any other. It is a noble pursuit that I…er…pursued. It involved sacrifice, brotherhood, selflessness, and ultimate humility. Any of you out there who call yourselves men and warriors know what I’m talking about.

I was a wingman.

Not just any wingman, either. I was wingman for a bald Buddhist at a Moroccan restaurant. It was tough, my friends. This was no “Play pool with the fuglies and feminazi’s while DerAuslander makes a strafing run on the pretty White House intern.” Nay, this was “Try to appear cool in a bullshido T-shirt at an expensive cultural restaurant to deflect one drunk psycho and her wallflower friend so DerAuslander can make time with the pretty photographer chick.”

Perhaps the horror is not apparent to you, gentle souls, who have not been blessed to know the Monk in all his glory. The wandering monk is a hairy 220-lb right-wing gun-toting swamp yankee of Irish and Scot descent. To take me somewhere with “culture” to make small talk with “liberal chicks” is akin to bringing Phrost to the democratic national convention. It’s like bringing HappyOldGuy to an Oklahoma barbecue. It’s like bringing Godzilla to Tokyo.

It ain’t pretty, folks. Are ya getting that?

We did not intend to hit on chicks. I myself am getting married this weekend and have no interest in any women who are not the impending Mrs. Monk. But I’ll be DAMNED if I leave a brother behind! The opening salvo was a bottle of wine. The three lovely ladies were all alone at one end of the restaurant, and DerAuslander felt that an overture of spirits would make them amenable to our company. We went over with no real plan of action, as all three ladies were quite attractive, and DerAus had yet to select his target. I moved into a support formation while initial recon was performed.

We had a photographer, a legal assistant, and a journalist for a pharmaceutical trade publication. After brief conversation, it became apparent that the legal assistant was the party girl of the bunch. She assaulted that bottle of wine like it contained eternal youth. She was loud, aggressive and obviously in need of all the attention she could get. The journalist was a cute little redhead, who seemed to be the shrinking violet of the group, until her 4th glass of wine, and then she came right up to speed. The photographer was the “good girl,” and as DerAuslander and I agreed, the prettiest girl of the bunch.
With the main target assigned, I began to run as much interference as I could. Fortunately, Lebanese beer is .00000032% alchohol, and .000000000000000000000000015% taste, so my wits remained keen despite 6 or 7 beers.

Usually, when one is wingman, you attempt to buy some alone time for the “ace” with the target. This was not physically possible in this environment, so I had to try to get the legal assistant all the attention she needed, while not letting the shrinking violet get too quiet while I was doing it. This left DerAus to entertain the photographer.

I would like to say that I did great under the circumstances. I made maneuvers that Chuck Yaeger would envy. More than once, I put myself directly in the line of fire. I was appropriately liberal, witty but not charming, and quite frankly played a good little Cyrano de Bergerac for my ace. Barring a few bad segue’s, we managed to keep the evening moving along swimmingly. Some truly hilarious moments came up when discussing cars and bullshido. For instance:

Legal Chick: What kind of car do you drive? (not-so-slyly attempting to determine my income bracket)
Wandering Monk: A ’69 Olds Cutlass.
Legal Chick: What’s that?
WM: *Blinks* A 1969 Oldsmobile Cutlass S Coupe?
LC: But what is that?
WM: It’s a car they made a long time ago.
LC: I don’t get it.
WM: *Desperately seeking assistance* Uhmm…(to Photographer chick) what do you drive?
PC: a Volkwagen Jetta.
WM: (to LC) you know what that is?
LC: duh!
WM: OK. “Volkwagen” makes the “Jetta,” right? Well in 1969 “Oldmobile” made the “Cutlass.” I own one of those.
LC: Oh, so it’s a car? What’s “Oldsmobile?”
WM: (dies inside and tried to move the conversation along) It‘s big and orange and goes VERY fast.

Even better was DerAuslander explaining Bullshido to the ladies. They were very keen to see DerAus and myself fight, but we declined. It got to a question of stick fighting, and Shrinking violet/journalist chick asks where they get the sticks. The absurdity of the question was simply too much for me and I responded glibly, “from a tree, usually,” eliciting roars of laughter from Photographer Chick and scorn from Legal Chick. Of course the term “hammered” was highly redundant at this point in reference to Legal Chick’s condition, so I did not think much of it.

The good news was at the end of the meal, DerAus had Photographer and Journalist Chick’s numbers, and we had to leave. I shant get into the shenanigans that ensued when we found out that the restaurant did not accept credit cards, and that their ATM machine would not read my card, but I managed to convince them to invoice my company and let us go. Unfortunately, all momentum was lost at that point, and no end game was played.

DerAus and I returned to the Irish pub we met up at for a beer and a recap, and we bump into two more potential ladies there. He zeroes in on “cute little brunette” and I get stuck playing interference on “Brunhilda the drunk married chick.” I did what I could and managed to get the Aus some alone time with his target, but Brunhilda’s husband called demanding she return home. She complied, unfortunately with DerAuslander’s target in tow.

Deciding to call it an evening, we barely make the last train back to where we needed to go, and bump into Brunhilda and her charge again. We managed to make sure they got on the right train (this took some doing!) and I headed my drunk self back to the hotel.
In all, it was a fascinating evening. Much merriment was had, and I was again reminded of good it is to be married and not have to do that crap every night. DerAuslander was a great host, and hopefully next time I can see him successfully complete his mission.

Reflecting upon the evening reminds the Wandering Monk that there are many types,
flavors and varieties of battle, and having skills in all of them makes you a very valuable person; and that there is no greater friend than the mighty wingman.
Remember, brothers, the creed of the wingman:

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 11:36am,
That brought tears to my eye. I still have to write my installment of "You Know You've Lived in a Buddhist Temple Too Long..."

I hope I can live up to the high standard you have set.

Scrapper
10/07/2008 11:42am,
you'll do fine...

HappyOldGuy
10/07/2008 11:53am,
I'll have you know I run a mean grill.
:violent1:


Good Story

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 12:02pm,
"Good story"?

"Good story"?!?

You heathens need to understand that Scrapper has bequifed to you an amazing piece of high motherfucking literature, the sort of legend that cocksmokers like Billy Shakespeare only wiish they could recount...

Good story my ass....

Ordinary Joe
10/07/2008 12:18pm,
I suspect that the top of Auslander's head is blushing ;-)

DerAuslander
10/07/2008 12:19pm,
Aye! Both of them!

Fighting Cephalopod
10/07/2008 12:53pm,
DerAuslander was a great host, and hopefully next time I can see him successfully complete his mission.

Facts we learn about Scrapper in this episode: He likes to watch.

Scrapper
10/07/2008 1:31pm,
Your are a creepy man.

I just wanted to see him succeed!

Hedgehogey
10/07/2008 3:50pm,
Getting drunk and striking out in DC bars is a thing of bullshido columns now?

Awesome, VRROOM VROOM I'M A JOURNALIST HURGLECOCK