There were no big games on. Not even any little ones. And foreign sports never count.
These facts were killing Hank. The man loves to gamble more than Casanova loves women. His favorite line when on the subject: We’re insatiable poke-her players.
Due to the glut of options on the tube, Santiago put on a reality show. I’ll admit I avoid the drivel as much as the next guy, but any program that can distract me from thinking about Ashleigh is a welcome one.
What is this fecal stew brewing on the view screen? Can’t we put on some highlight reels?
Get up and change it.
Santiago called Hank’s bluff, so the group of us sat around watching some aged rocker trying to date loose women with looser screws on a bus. It happened to be on a channel that I thought was known for playing music videos. At least they did when Ashleigh and I would hang out in her bedroom, necking to some… dare I say? I dare not say unless I’d like another reaming from Hank.
Picking up ladies like those is tantamount to an elephant picking up peanuts. We all looked at Kilgore for his explanation. It’s easy.
Did you know elephants purr? That’s how they communicate. H.L. began purring like an elephant, which sounded a lot like a cat. He took a sip of his draught beverage and continued making noises.
My sixth wife was an elephant, and I sure could make her purr. Hank claims to have been married eight times, but I don’t believe him.
H.L. used the back of his hand to wipe the foam forming on his lips that came from purring with a mouth full of beer. It completed the picture of a cat – far from an elephant.
Kilgore had an epiphany:
I’ve got a reality show for you. Hank would even watch it. The show’s producers would go around and abduct burly men. Men outside doing manual labor. Cutting down trees, digging graves, building garages. A huge group of them, around a dozen… if that could be a huge group. They’d get locked in a barn and be provided with unlimited amounts of whiskey. Once a hierarchy was established after a few days, a pig would be unleashed upon them. I mean, the hugest hog you’ve seen. They could make horror stories about this swine.
We all waited once again for a punchline, but Kilgore went back to his brew. I asked what would happen, and Kilgore shrugged and smiled like that was the answer. Santiago had to get full-size towels because napkins weren’t enough to clean up H.L.’s mess.
Fish… you’re a fucking idiot.
Old Men at the Bar 