Your "The World Is A Cauldron of Misery and Pain" Quizo Update

So yesterday we're at the pub for the League Cup final, which Chelsea did not win. Not only did we not win, we got our asses kicked. It was embarrassing. It was demoralizing.

After the game, this absolutely amazed me, I went outside for a cigarette, and when I came back inside - we're talking six minutes after the full-time whistle - ALL THE SPURS FANS WERE GONE. Every goddamn one of them. It was one of the strangest things I've ever seen.

As one of the Rangers guys said, "it's been so long since they won something they didn't remember you're supposed to stick around and celebrate."

The Chelsea guys - the hardcore group of us who are there more or less every week - stuck around for a solid couple hours, talking and hanging out and whatnot. I'm still pretty miserable about losing to FUCKING SPURS! but I'm trying to maintain a strong composure in the face of adversity when I go outside later for another cigarette. A couple of our guys are out there, also smoking, and they're talking to some woman. I've seen her around a couple times but I don't really know who she is. As I get down to the bottom of the steps and light my cigarette I hear her say, "so I'm on the couch at this bar and I'm hooking up with this chick," and I realize I have walked into precisely the right conversation to improve my mood.

For the next thirty minutes this woman goes into an extended dissertation about her preferred sexual practices that does not border on the pornographic. It transcends pornographic. Redefines it. Anything that might have once been considered pornography is now, in the face of this conversation, merely a vaguely engaging distraction.

This shit is HOT.

After a solid half hour of listening to this I think that the capricious and vindictive God that rules my existence has finally answered my prayers and sent me a single woman - and, believe me, I checked, no ring, no mention of boyfriend or whatever -  who, in addition to being a soccer fan, is clearly a raging nymphomaniac. I have completely forgotten about losing to Spurs. I have completely forgotten that my dry cleaner lost my jacket and I will be unable to attend our annual black-tie Oscar party that night. I have completely forgotten every cocktail waitress and dealer that I've ever had a one (or two, or three, or ten) night stand with in Atlantic City. I have completely forgotten everything in the entire universe and my brain is consumed only with the idea of somehow becoming a participant in one of the stories this woman is telling and how I would die happy - nay, blissful, contented, in glorious harmony with the whole of creation - if I could only get in on one-one-hundreth of the pure carnality that is apparently this woman's every waking moment.

Then she says, "so I guess that's why my husband married me."

Outwardly I say, "hmm, yes, seems so."

Inwardly I say, "WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK MAN! YOU GOTTA MENTION THAT AT THE FUCKING BEGINNING!"

There's burying the lead, folks, and then there's cutting the lead into lots of little bits and dropping them one by one out of an airplane flying over the deepest trench in the Atlantic Ocean where no one could ever hope to find all of them and reconstruct the lead into one solid piece ever again.

What's worse, I ask you: finally, after thirty years of (let's face it) mind-numbing insanity, seeing your dream come to life in front of you, or finally seeing said dream, and then having it yanked away a picometer from your grasp, and then getting kicked in the junk for good measure?

And - and and AND - we lost to fucking Spurs.

It's a miracle I haven't killed anyone today. It really is.

JLK