Last night the cable went out halfway through the first quarter of the Eagles-Cowboys game, prompting an unexpected adventure. Alas, the bar I finally found was below street level at the Marriott, and the cell phone reception sucked. But if I could twitter, this is what it would have looked like:
All showered, chores are done, time to settle in and get ready for some football!
Wha happa to the TV? Whaddya mean cable's out for the whole building?
This is unacceptable. Somebody fetch me my pants.
Damn the makeup, screw the wet hair, time to run like the wind!
That's enough running. My knees are for crap.
Don't bother welcoming me to the effing Marriott, Skippy. Just show me the way to the bar and get me a Yuengling.
Okay, when I left the apartment 10 minutes ago the score was 7-6. Now it's 21-20. Clearly, I stepped into a wormhole somewhere around New York Avenue.
I hear that T.O. eats his own poo. And babies. Pass it on.
I love DeSean Jackson so bad!
I'm-a kick DeSean Jackson's ass so bad his granddaddy'll feel it.
Another Yuengling? I really shouldn't. Okay!
I don't feel so good.
Sometimes, a little puke goes a long way. Now I'm hungry again. Bring me your finest quesadilla!
Don't tell me there's no such thing as wormholes, because the score just went up about a zillion points while I was barfing. A zillion.
Hit me, Yuengling, one more time.
Brian Westbrook is god.
Brian Westbrook kills me. Or maybe it's Donovan. Whatever, I hate you guys.
Y'know what, Cowboys fans? You got freakin' lucky. Maybe the Eagles lost, but they fought. They fought hard. They fought like warrior poets. Dear god, I'm drunk.
What's that, strange man? You wanna pay for my Yuengling and quesadilla? Hey, I might be drunk, but I ain't stupid. Go right ahead.
Skins fans are weirdly nice to you when you're playing the Cowboys.
Dude...did I get wasted last night and send some embarrassing text messages about keeping hope alive? With really improper grammar and questionable syntax? I'm sorry...I'm not usually like that...