Well kittens, it has been quite the 24 hours. Let's begin with a brief re-cap of Monday Night Football, which I watched with Harmony and Hot Donna at our local Spike Lee joint. I was so excited to be out because I was just getting over a minor head cold and was thankful to get out and do something.
My first mistake was ordering Fat Tire at the bar when we got there. I tasted and thought, "Oh, I guess it's alright, I mean like, it's not bad for a light beer."
Oh? What's that you say, readers? It's not a light beer? It's just regular and it tastes awful?! OH MY GOD YOU'RE RIGHT! ****spit-take****
It was terrible. Why are people losing their minds over such a terrible display of American brewery?
Anyhow, with that the game began, I was drinking slowly (thus saving money) and eating half price wings...but something wasn't quite right still. The Giants were losing, see, and there was this guy, see, and he was sitting at the bar real obnoxious-like. This guy almost made saving the amount of money I was by going to the bar on half price wing night not worth the experience of having to endure him throughout the game. He was a Saints fan, and good God if he wasn't going to let everyone from Van Ness to Dupont Circle know about it. He didn't sit down the entire game, and anytime the refs called anything against the Saints he would be like "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaat? No! C'mon, ref! C'mon now, that was legal contact!".
Now, as Harmony can attest, I am quite the vocal football watcher, whenever the Ravens score a touchdown or T. Sizzle sacks a be-yotch, I exclaim with glee, "Jolly good drive there, my boys, quite well done." But this guy, was not just cheering his own team on at excessive pace and volume, he was mocking people who clapped and shouted when the Giants actually did something right.
After one particular touchdown, I yelped "Yea!", and the guy looked at me from across the bar and in a high pitched, jovial tone, said "Yea! Hee Hee Hee" right back.
Escuse me?! Securrity, this guy has gots to go, gots to go.
Anyway, there was another loud fan in the bar, but he was a Giants fan, and by the end of the game, he and this guy were going at each other with the most violently passive aggressive interactions I've ever seen. They were literally having a slow clap off. Okay, so like, the Giants score a touchdown in the 3rd, and the Giants fan jumps out of his seat, hat and sunglasses on (yea, sunglasses on, in a bar, at 11 PM), and starts vigorously clapping while staring at the Saints fan. The Saints fan responded by clapping and staring right back...they each slowed down their clapping pace until it sounded like popcorn right before you take it out of the oven, but each refused to stop.
This went on for roughly 37 minutes, I missed the rest of the game.
So anyway, there was all sorts of bad juju floating around there. Then this morning, every broke girl's worst nightmare came a'calling.
BoA called me to ask if I had recently purchased gas at a station in Florida. Umm...no I have not, maybe Imelda has, but not me. Turns out, some internet savvy citizen of Florida jacked my checking account info and has been going on a little road trip down the panhandle. BoA refunded me the disputed funds and is sending me a new card, the whole thing probably would've fazed me a lot more if I hadn't dealt with a similar situation back in college.
See, back in those days, before there was a burger place on every other corner in the city, friends and I would venture to the Georgetown Johnny Rockets to get our fix. We were sooooooooo classy. One night, I accidentally left my debit card in the check fold when I left. I didn't realize it until later that night, and I checked my account and there were no weird charges, so I just went ahead and cancelled it.
A day or so later I went back to Johnny Rockets to see if they had it, and while they had an entire soda cup full of credit cards, they didn't have mine. When I got back home, I checked my bank account and to my surprise, some crazy person was able to charge $1,000 of stereo equipment to it before the cancellation was finalized.
The bank launched a full scale investigation, but I didn't need one, I knew who the culprit was. As you may recall from the tale of the aforementioned Imelda, I am quite the sleuth. You see, the Best Buy where the charges were made was in Falls Church, VA. If you've ever been to a Johnny Rockets, you know that the servers have their hometowns on their name tags. Guess where our server on that fated night was from, that's right! Falls Church, VA, I had cracked the case.
Of course, the bank didn't pay attention to my findings and there was no way to really prove that he was the guy...but he was the guy, I know he was the guy...
And that's why I no longer go to Johnny Rockets, well that, and the food is awful...I mean c'mon, why not just eat a hot circle of garbage. Right, Kevin?