Thunderous Manboobies

The man behinds me brays beer spittle and insults at Scotty Brooks. I'm not looking but I'll bet occasionally a nipple peeks out from under his Scottie Pippen jersey. His bosoms are as bouncy and active as a 2 year old after a shot of espresso and unlikely to be contained by such thin mesh. His girthy son slams noisemakers together with notable vigor. There's a sweet spot to do that and that spot is inches from my head. I know this because I feel the air from them and occasionally the implements themselves. If the Blazers free throw defense were a sentient being it'd thank this young man for the energy he saved by not taking advantage of our recent sun to venture outside. I know he didn't venture because there's no soil in or on the extra wide Nike perched on the back my chair. I mean none, it's gloriously white. The shoe, somehow, like its noisemaker friends, is inches from my head. How does this kid get all of those things into one little space? The back of my head is relatively small. And how did he get noisemakers up here in the 300 section? Did he SAVE them from the last game? Did he ask for them?

Timeout now. My loyal companion and friend for life MB turns to me share basketball wisdom. I welcome this. He's smart, wise even. Fortunately for EVERYONE it's contest time and his words are drowned by an ear assault from that one guy with the microphone. You know that guy?....he's got the microphone sometimes during timeouts? with the..... no that's Bob Costas..... that's Arsenio Hall......Sacha Baron Cohen, just listen, this guy does the contests. He's really enthusiastic? Like sometimes there's a dishwasher a fridge and a drier on the court and they'll put a blindfold on a housewife and other housewives will screech her directions until she finds and wins the dishwasher (she wanted the fridge) and months later she'll load chipped IKEA plates into it with sad, red, tired eyes which remember happier times and the one who got away. A Facebook search will later reveal he's come out of the closet but she friends him anyway because maybe love really does conquer all.

(This happens EVERY time the appliance contest goes down, I promise you.)

Anyway microphone guy wouldn't stop bleating at jet engine decibel levels so it's down to the main concourse level we go to get a taste of the good life.

The difference is marked. It seems to be better lit. High ceilings. There are kiosks everywhere. You see why when you note the demographics. They're taller. Their clothes are cleaner and newer. Their pores are smaller. These people have money, and probably access to facials/massages/senators/nutritious foods too.

Here and there is a skulking denizen of the 300 level. You're not fooling anyone Poory McPoorstein. Scurry back to from whence you came or noble constable will have you in irons forthwith.

My imagination is running away with me. I should probably gather my ragtag group of fellow orphans and see if we can scrape together enough shillings to share a bowl of porridge.

Actually I have a better idea.

Beer. Need Beer.

Beer is how much?

Coke then, just a coke.

Next time I'll remember one of those cool little plastic flasks they sell at those hip upscale places. I'll bet these people down here in the 100 section shop there all the time. I'll bet there's a plate with crackers and a blue cheese, a triple cream, and a double cream to boot just so you can tell who really knows their cheese when someone goes, "no THAT'S the double cream you ignoble boob! Didn't you note the ribald finish?! This is exactly why you would've struggled at Julliard". The man being chastised needs redemption and so waits for the opportunity to include the phrase "how delightfully provincial" in the conversation. There's a good chance he'll find it but it probably won't work as well as he thinks.

I'll bet when they ask for more crackers the salespeople aren't all snarky about getting them. I'll bet.

Boom! there it is, nipple slip. Get a manzier Scotty.