Did you hear this rumor yet!!!!
The one where Timothy Richard Tebow broke up Lindsey Vonn's marriage and is now
dating her?
That's right. A rumor that the should-have-been-aborted-miracle-baby, born-again Christian, Filipino circumcising, saving-himself-for-marriage, inaccurate as all hell, starting Bronco's QB has landed super hot US Olympian Alpine goddess Lindsey Vonn.
Some guys have all the luck.
If this is somehow true (it's not, if there is a fair and loving God, this is not true), then the debate is over. Tebow is the
second-coming of Christ, and this time he's decided "You know what, I'm
Jesus fucking Christ! Sure, I'll prepare the army of the Lord for
judgement day in 2012, but I'll be damned if I don't get to have a
little fun along the way this time around!"
Screw it. As discussed here previously, Julia Mancuso is my favorite hot US winter Olympian anyway. (Nastia Liukin gets the summer and overall titles).
Showing posts with label Stupidity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stupidity. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Off to the races....
So I attended my first ever NASCAR race this weekend – an event which doubled as the first time I’ve ever watched more than one lap of any auto race… ever.
My buddy Murph, an in-the-flesh NASCAR fan, had four tickets to the Lenox Industrial Tools 301 at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon, and he asked me and two other friends – Joe and Canavan – to go to the race with him.
I figured that I might as well see what this whole NASCAR thing was all about, so I happily accepted.
Not knowing exactly what to expect, but prepared for anything, I set out from my house at 7 a.m. Sunday morning wearing a tank-top and my Jim Beam Racing hat (a freebie with a bottle of Beam about a year ago that I was hoping would prevent me from standing out like a sore thumb as a non-racing fan who knows nothing about the sport). What follows is a running retro-diary of my day, the accuracy of which ranges from exact to very loose interpretation, with the variable being the number of beers consumed.
Due to the massive size of this diary, I'm going to post it in two parts over the next two days. So without further adu, here's Bill's NASCAR Diary, Part I:
7:20 AM:
The tank-top/Beam racing hat are already doing the trick. I just stopped to gas up and grab some ice for the coolers on the way to Murph’s house, and the woman behind the counter at Shell took one look at me and asked, “You headed up to the race today?”
Score 1 for Bill.
7:45 AM:
“They’re gonna love you!!”
That’s Murph’s reaction upon seeing my get-up as I arrive at his house.
Murph seems to be in good spirits and ready to roll; good sign for the start of the morning. Joe, on the other hand, looks like hell and just informed me that “(He) had a green butt purge,” this morning. Given that we have 90 beers in the trunk for just four people, I have a feeling that Joe’s green morning “butt purge” won’t be his last.
8:10 AM:
Canavan finally arrives at Murph’s house, bringing with him the “grill” that we’ll be using to tailgate all day. It’s not quite what was promised when he told us he had a grill – the “grill” part is there, but we weren’t expecting the added bonuses of rust and cobwebs on our burgers.
After some mild complaining about Canavan’s “grill”, we load up my ’98 Nissan Altima and head out – Loudon, here we come.
8:22 AM:
We spot our first fellow race fans of the day as we’re waiting to take a left in traffic. A huge pickup truck with a giant American flag hanging out the back window – viciously flapping over the truck bed – rolls by as Murph and Joe simultaneously say, “That guy’s definitely going to NASCAR.”
What have I gotten myself into?
9:07 AM:
We’re getting closer to Loudon, and the number of both teeth and minorities in the cars surrounding us is dwindling. Fast.
Murph announces that he’s getting “hot flashes” from the morning coffee, as Joe counters with, “Hot flashes, what about me, I had a green butt purge this morning.” I have a feeling we’ll be hearing about this non-stop throughout the day.
9:11 AM:
Canavan seriously contemplates getting out and walking next to the car (crawling along in race traffic at this point) to have a cigarette.
9:37 AM:
First beer of the morning is officially cracked.
After sitting in a little more race traffic, parking, and unloading the car, the boys are ready to rock. (I do feel it’s worth noting that the first person we see in the parking lot has cut-off sleeves and a two-foot long rat tail.)
Joe tunes in the local classic rock station on the radio and the first round of beers are down within five minutes.
Four down, 86 to go.
10:08 AM:
Joe announces that Murph is the “Pace Car” after Murph finishes beer number four while the rest of us are only about a quarter of the way through. When I finish mine and tell Joe to drink up and crack another, he cites the “green butt purge” for the 27th time this morning as the reason for his “slow” (3 and ½ beers in 31 minutes) start.
Murph tells Canavan to fire the up the “grill”. It’s time for some breakfast.
10:09 AM:
We realize we did not bring a spatula. Murph sends Joe on a mission to seek out good-hearted tailgaters who will let us borrow theirs. The mission is successful.
We’ve been talking to a few of the surrounding groups since getting here, and I have to admit that “the NASCAR lifestyle,” as Murph calls it, is pretty damn fun. Picture tailgating before a football game, except instead of being in a parking lot, you’re on grass. And there are way more people, and miraculously enough port-o-potties to accommodate the crowd. And there are fewer d-bags. The NASCAR fans might be a little (or a lot) rough around the edges, but you’d be hard pressed to find a friendlier bunch.
10:36 AM:
Breakfast is served!! Burgers and potato chips washed down with a healthy amount of Miller Lite.
The weather’s not bad and the rain seems to be holding off, we’re all having a good time and drinking at an incredible pace.
Canavan is talking sports with Brian, who is parked next to us with his dad. They drove up from Connecticut for the race; leaving their house at 5 AM. Brian explains that he didn’t get in from “partying bra” the night before “until like 3 AM”. Murph says he wishes Brian had stayed partying, though Brian grew on us later.
11:23 AM:
Since we got here this morning we’ve been having a running commentary on the type of female who attends NASCAR. Joe has an ingenious system for rating these women.
Instead of the traditional 1-10 rating system, Joe describes the quality of women at NASCAR by how many beers deep he would have to be before sleeping with them. In this system then, a 0 is the highest possible rating, while the ceiling for low ratings stretches to infinity.
Based on our observations, the average rating at this particular race is roughly 235, though that number is skewed by the several women who we rated as “infinities”.
I bring this up here because we have just handed out our second single-digit rating of the day. However, it has been called into question as we wonder whether rating someone an 8 while being nine beers deep actually means that person is a 17.
This is an important question, and it needs answering.
11:34 AM:
There is a large gap in the row of parked cars across from us because the friendly female parking attendant keeps waving cars past when they try to park there. Murph starts talking to her, and she explains that she’s waving these cars past because we’d have to get up and move for a second to allow them to back in, and she doesn’t want us to have to move.
This would not happen anywhere else on earth. And though we’re thankful for her thoughtfulness, we have a problem: we want people to drink with!
So, every time we see a car driving past full of passengers we deem to be “fun people”, we’re screaming at them to park there and trying to back them in without the parking attendant, who keeps coming up and waving them out, seeing.
12:00 PM:
Thirty-plus beers down and Murph announces that it’s time to make picks for the $20 pool. Each of us will pick three drivers, and whoever has the highest finisher will win. I can see right off that bat that this will be a problem for me.
Joe gets the first pick and takes Kyle Busch. I take Jimmie Johnson with pick #2, who I just found out was a NASCAR driver about an hour ago. After Canavan picks Tony Stewart I’m down to two more drivers that I know. Joe takes one of them (Jeff Gordon) and I take the remaining one (Dale Jr.) with my second pick and end up with some scrub for my final pick.
(More to come… check back for Part II of the diary, including the actual Race and “Joe’s big day out” tomorrow)
My buddy Murph, an in-the-flesh NASCAR fan, had four tickets to the Lenox Industrial Tools 301 at the New Hampshire Motor Speedway in Loudon, and he asked me and two other friends – Joe and Canavan – to go to the race with him.
I figured that I might as well see what this whole NASCAR thing was all about, so I happily accepted.
Not knowing exactly what to expect, but prepared for anything, I set out from my house at 7 a.m. Sunday morning wearing a tank-top and my Jim Beam Racing hat (a freebie with a bottle of Beam about a year ago that I was hoping would prevent me from standing out like a sore thumb as a non-racing fan who knows nothing about the sport). What follows is a running retro-diary of my day, the accuracy of which ranges from exact to very loose interpretation, with the variable being the number of beers consumed.
Due to the massive size of this diary, I'm going to post it in two parts over the next two days. So without further adu, here's Bill's NASCAR Diary, Part I:
7:20 AM:
The tank-top/Beam racing hat are already doing the trick. I just stopped to gas up and grab some ice for the coolers on the way to Murph’s house, and the woman behind the counter at Shell took one look at me and asked, “You headed up to the race today?”
Score 1 for Bill.
7:45 AM:
“They’re gonna love you!!”
That’s Murph’s reaction upon seeing my get-up as I arrive at his house.
Murph seems to be in good spirits and ready to roll; good sign for the start of the morning. Joe, on the other hand, looks like hell and just informed me that “(He) had a green butt purge,” this morning. Given that we have 90 beers in the trunk for just four people, I have a feeling that Joe’s green morning “butt purge” won’t be his last.
8:10 AM:
Canavan finally arrives at Murph’s house, bringing with him the “grill” that we’ll be using to tailgate all day. It’s not quite what was promised when he told us he had a grill – the “grill” part is there, but we weren’t expecting the added bonuses of rust and cobwebs on our burgers.
After some mild complaining about Canavan’s “grill”, we load up my ’98 Nissan Altima and head out – Loudon, here we come.
8:22 AM:
We spot our first fellow race fans of the day as we’re waiting to take a left in traffic. A huge pickup truck with a giant American flag hanging out the back window – viciously flapping over the truck bed – rolls by as Murph and Joe simultaneously say, “That guy’s definitely going to NASCAR.”
What have I gotten myself into?
9:07 AM:
We’re getting closer to Loudon, and the number of both teeth and minorities in the cars surrounding us is dwindling. Fast.
Murph announces that he’s getting “hot flashes” from the morning coffee, as Joe counters with, “Hot flashes, what about me, I had a green butt purge this morning.” I have a feeling we’ll be hearing about this non-stop throughout the day.
9:11 AM:
Canavan seriously contemplates getting out and walking next to the car (crawling along in race traffic at this point) to have a cigarette.
9:37 AM:
First beer of the morning is officially cracked.
After sitting in a little more race traffic, parking, and unloading the car, the boys are ready to rock. (I do feel it’s worth noting that the first person we see in the parking lot has cut-off sleeves and a two-foot long rat tail.)
Joe tunes in the local classic rock station on the radio and the first round of beers are down within five minutes.
Four down, 86 to go.
10:08 AM:
Joe announces that Murph is the “Pace Car” after Murph finishes beer number four while the rest of us are only about a quarter of the way through. When I finish mine and tell Joe to drink up and crack another, he cites the “green butt purge” for the 27th time this morning as the reason for his “slow” (3 and ½ beers in 31 minutes) start.
Murph tells Canavan to fire the up the “grill”. It’s time for some breakfast.
10:09 AM:
We realize we did not bring a spatula. Murph sends Joe on a mission to seek out good-hearted tailgaters who will let us borrow theirs. The mission is successful.
We’ve been talking to a few of the surrounding groups since getting here, and I have to admit that “the NASCAR lifestyle,” as Murph calls it, is pretty damn fun. Picture tailgating before a football game, except instead of being in a parking lot, you’re on grass. And there are way more people, and miraculously enough port-o-potties to accommodate the crowd. And there are fewer d-bags. The NASCAR fans might be a little (or a lot) rough around the edges, but you’d be hard pressed to find a friendlier bunch.
10:36 AM:
Breakfast is served!! Burgers and potato chips washed down with a healthy amount of Miller Lite.
The weather’s not bad and the rain seems to be holding off, we’re all having a good time and drinking at an incredible pace.
Canavan is talking sports with Brian, who is parked next to us with his dad. They drove up from Connecticut for the race; leaving their house at 5 AM. Brian explains that he didn’t get in from “partying bra” the night before “until like 3 AM”. Murph says he wishes Brian had stayed partying, though Brian grew on us later.
11:23 AM:
Since we got here this morning we’ve been having a running commentary on the type of female who attends NASCAR. Joe has an ingenious system for rating these women.
Instead of the traditional 1-10 rating system, Joe describes the quality of women at NASCAR by how many beers deep he would have to be before sleeping with them. In this system then, a 0 is the highest possible rating, while the ceiling for low ratings stretches to infinity.
Based on our observations, the average rating at this particular race is roughly 235, though that number is skewed by the several women who we rated as “infinities”.
I bring this up here because we have just handed out our second single-digit rating of the day. However, it has been called into question as we wonder whether rating someone an 8 while being nine beers deep actually means that person is a 17.
This is an important question, and it needs answering.
11:34 AM:
There is a large gap in the row of parked cars across from us because the friendly female parking attendant keeps waving cars past when they try to park there. Murph starts talking to her, and she explains that she’s waving these cars past because we’d have to get up and move for a second to allow them to back in, and she doesn’t want us to have to move.
This would not happen anywhere else on earth. And though we’re thankful for her thoughtfulness, we have a problem: we want people to drink with!
So, every time we see a car driving past full of passengers we deem to be “fun people”, we’re screaming at them to park there and trying to back them in without the parking attendant, who keeps coming up and waving them out, seeing.
12:00 PM:
Thirty-plus beers down and Murph announces that it’s time to make picks for the $20 pool. Each of us will pick three drivers, and whoever has the highest finisher will win. I can see right off that bat that this will be a problem for me.
Joe gets the first pick and takes Kyle Busch. I take Jimmie Johnson with pick #2, who I just found out was a NASCAR driver about an hour ago. After Canavan picks Tony Stewart I’m down to two more drivers that I know. Joe takes one of them (Jeff Gordon) and I take the remaining one (Dale Jr.) with my second pick and end up with some scrub for my final pick.
(More to come… check back for Part II of the diary, including the actual Race and “Joe’s big day out” tomorrow)
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Observations from Game 1
Today was one of the more miserable days of work in recent memory, mostly because I woke up without a voice, and without the drive to do much of anything, after attending the Celtics 95-90 loss to the Magic in Game 1 of the Eastern Conference Semi-Finals last night.
The game itself was a thriller, with the Celts rallying back from a 28-point deficit to come within three points of Dwight’s (only 16 pts, 22 reb) (Only?) (Yeah, we’ll go with that.) Magic in the closing minutes. It was such a remarkable comeback / epic collapse that it’s tough to say which team walked away the winner in this one. The Magic just took away home court advantage (in theory) and are up a game over the defending champs, but at the same time the Celtics just proved to themselves and everyone else that they are a force to be reckoned with and can overcome even the most seemingly insurmountable odds.
That said, here’s a list of observations from my Game 1 experience, in no particular order.
1) My buddy Cunn is not to be left alone while intoxicated. He accompanied me to the game last night and we met up beforehand at (the legendary) Halftime Pizza to slug back some brews and grab dinner. He, being Cunn, had taken the train into the city to meet me, and had downed a glass of Jim Beam before boarding the train and an additional apple juice bottle full of Jim on his way in. Needless to say, by the time he had downed two of Halftime’s 32-ounce, $7.50, personal pitchers of goodness, he was hammered.
Now… before I continue with this story, I feel obligated to tell you another one. Last year, I went to the Celtics season opener against the Wizards with Cunn. I was in school at the time in Vermont. Cunn was in school in Mass. It was a Friday night, and I had an exam that morning, so we agreed that I’d drive down after my exam, meet at my parent’s house, and take the train in to the city for the game.
My piece of shit car broke down on the way down from Vermont though. Luckily, it was a minor problem that I paid a mechanic extra in order to fix so I could make the game. I called Cunn up and told him I’d meet him in the city, outside the garden instead.
So, I get down there 10 minutes before tip off, have to park in the Fanuel Hall parking Garage cause there’s no parking anywhere near the Garden, sprint over to the Garden thinking, “Shit, I’m gonna miss KG’s intro,” and what do I see? Cunn standing outside the Garden, visibly sloshed, hitting on a homeless girl with dreads.
The ensuing conversation went like this:
Me: “What the fuck are you doing?”
Cunn: “A-what?”
Me: “Do you know what time it is? We’re gonna miss tip-off.”
Cunn: “I was talkin’.”
Me: “To a homeless girl! What the hell were you talking about? WHY were you talking to her?” What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Cunn: “I don’t know how I got into that situation, but I couldn’t get out.”
And there you have it.
Last night, though, the legend of Cunn grew tenfold. After I finished my last beers at Halftime, Cunn was struggling with the final sips of his. I needed some wings before the game, so in the interest of time, I decided that I would go over to 7/11 while he finished his beer and grab a Red Bull, and told him to meet me on the corner outside of Halftime in 5.
Cunn was opposed to this idea. “You can’t leave me by myself,” he said, explaining he was basically at the point where he needed a chaperone. Naturally, I told him to stop being a pussy and deal.
So I go to 7/11, get my caffeine fix, walk out, and there’s Cunn, standing on the corner with a confused look on his face, talking to some homeless guy. I could tell by the look on his face that this was a conversation he clearly wanted no part of, so I quickly walked over, tapped him on the back and said, “All right man, let’s go, we’re gonna miss the intros.”
Without saying anything Cunn turns and starts to walk away with me, but the homeless guy starts yelling something, barely intelligible, that I believe was, “Hey, man, no man, hold on man, my brother, Ha Ha, my brother.”
He comes up to Cunn, and hugs him. The homeless guy hugged Cunn in the middle of a crowd of people on Causeway Street before a Celts game. HE HUGGED HIM. WHAT THE FUCK.
Me: “Why did that guy just hug you?”
Cunn: (Petrified) “I have no idea.”
Me: “What were you even talking about?”
Cunn: “I have no fucking clue.”
Me: “How do you not know.”
Cunn: “I don’t… know”
Me: “How did you even start talking to him? How did you suddenly find yourself in that situation?”
Cunn: (Laughing like an idiot at this point) “I… don’t… know”
Me: “So you walk out of halftime, and next thing you know some homeless guy is hugging you.”
Cunn: “Yes… I told you, I can’t be left alone.”
The game itself was a thriller, with the Celts rallying back from a 28-point deficit to come within three points of Dwight’s (only 16 pts, 22 reb) (Only?) (Yeah, we’ll go with that.) Magic in the closing minutes. It was such a remarkable comeback / epic collapse that it’s tough to say which team walked away the winner in this one. The Magic just took away home court advantage (in theory) and are up a game over the defending champs, but at the same time the Celtics just proved to themselves and everyone else that they are a force to be reckoned with and can overcome even the most seemingly insurmountable odds.
That said, here’s a list of observations from my Game 1 experience, in no particular order.
1) My buddy Cunn is not to be left alone while intoxicated. He accompanied me to the game last night and we met up beforehand at (the legendary) Halftime Pizza to slug back some brews and grab dinner. He, being Cunn, had taken the train into the city to meet me, and had downed a glass of Jim Beam before boarding the train and an additional apple juice bottle full of Jim on his way in. Needless to say, by the time he had downed two of Halftime’s 32-ounce, $7.50, personal pitchers of goodness, he was hammered.
Now… before I continue with this story, I feel obligated to tell you another one. Last year, I went to the Celtics season opener against the Wizards with Cunn. I was in school at the time in Vermont. Cunn was in school in Mass. It was a Friday night, and I had an exam that morning, so we agreed that I’d drive down after my exam, meet at my parent’s house, and take the train in to the city for the game.
My piece of shit car broke down on the way down from Vermont though. Luckily, it was a minor problem that I paid a mechanic extra in order to fix so I could make the game. I called Cunn up and told him I’d meet him in the city, outside the garden instead.
So, I get down there 10 minutes before tip off, have to park in the Fanuel Hall parking Garage cause there’s no parking anywhere near the Garden, sprint over to the Garden thinking, “Shit, I’m gonna miss KG’s intro,” and what do I see? Cunn standing outside the Garden, visibly sloshed, hitting on a homeless girl with dreads.
The ensuing conversation went like this:
Me: “What the fuck are you doing?”
Cunn: “A-what?”
Me: “Do you know what time it is? We’re gonna miss tip-off.”
Cunn: “I was talkin’.”
Me: “To a homeless girl! What the hell were you talking about? WHY were you talking to her?” What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Cunn: “I don’t know how I got into that situation, but I couldn’t get out.”
And there you have it.
Last night, though, the legend of Cunn grew tenfold. After I finished my last beers at Halftime, Cunn was struggling with the final sips of his. I needed some wings before the game, so in the interest of time, I decided that I would go over to 7/11 while he finished his beer and grab a Red Bull, and told him to meet me on the corner outside of Halftime in 5.
Cunn was opposed to this idea. “You can’t leave me by myself,” he said, explaining he was basically at the point where he needed a chaperone. Naturally, I told him to stop being a pussy and deal.
So I go to 7/11, get my caffeine fix, walk out, and there’s Cunn, standing on the corner with a confused look on his face, talking to some homeless guy. I could tell by the look on his face that this was a conversation he clearly wanted no part of, so I quickly walked over, tapped him on the back and said, “All right man, let’s go, we’re gonna miss the intros.”
Without saying anything Cunn turns and starts to walk away with me, but the homeless guy starts yelling something, barely intelligible, that I believe was, “Hey, man, no man, hold on man, my brother, Ha Ha, my brother.”
He comes up to Cunn, and hugs him. The homeless guy hugged Cunn in the middle of a crowd of people on Causeway Street before a Celts game. HE HUGGED HIM. WHAT THE FUCK.
Me: “Why did that guy just hug you?”
Cunn: (Petrified) “I have no idea.”
Me: “What were you even talking about?”
Cunn: “I have no fucking clue.”
Me: “How do you not know.”
Cunn: “I don’t… know”
Me: “How did you even start talking to him? How did you suddenly find yourself in that situation?”
Cunn: (Laughing like an idiot at this point) “I… don’t… know”
Me: “So you walk out of halftime, and next thing you know some homeless guy is hugging you.”
Cunn: “Yes… I told you, I can’t be left alone.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
One Ranchero at a Time...
Throughout the annals of history, the weak and vulnerable have been endlessly exploited by those in positions of power - in short "the man" has been sticking it to the little guy for years.
With that said, allow me to tell you an inspiring tale of one young man who is turning the tables, sticking it right back to the man; a modern day Robin Hood.
See, my good friend Cunn has recently decided to strike back at the corporate powers that oppress him. Cunn is a student at one of the many state and community colleges in the great and glorious Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He is currently living at home and commuting to classes each day, and as such has been forced to purchase a parking pass for the school's lots at the completely unreasonable price of $146 per semester.
Cunn is clearly not happy about this, and is even less so due to the fact that, and I quote, - "I have to drive around the pahkin' lot for a fuckin' half hour every mornin' to find a god damn space."
"I literally have to stalk people while they're walking to their cars and steal their spaces," he says.
So, last week, Cunn informed me that he's had enough - and he's striking back.
How you ask?
Ranchero style.
Cunn has been stealing Ranchero sandwiches from the school's cafeteria during lunch. And he plans on doing so until he's stolen, that's right, $146 worth of Ranchero's - just enough to make up for his parking permit.
According to him, the caf is set up like a one way street, in the entrance and then out near the registers at a separate exit. The drinks, however, are positioned right at the entrance, so Cunn, each day after grabbing his Ranchero, pretends like he forgot to grab a drink and doubles back toward the entrance. He checks to make sure the coast is clear, snags a coke, and walks right back out the way he came in.
Cunn, taking down the man... One Ranchero at a time.
With that said, allow me to tell you an inspiring tale of one young man who is turning the tables, sticking it right back to the man; a modern day Robin Hood.
See, my good friend Cunn has recently decided to strike back at the corporate powers that oppress him. Cunn is a student at one of the many state and community colleges in the great and glorious Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He is currently living at home and commuting to classes each day, and as such has been forced to purchase a parking pass for the school's lots at the completely unreasonable price of $146 per semester.
Cunn is clearly not happy about this, and is even less so due to the fact that, and I quote, - "I have to drive around the pahkin' lot for a fuckin' half hour every mornin' to find a god damn space."
"I literally have to stalk people while they're walking to their cars and steal their spaces," he says.
So, last week, Cunn informed me that he's had enough - and he's striking back.
How you ask?
Ranchero style.
Cunn has been stealing Ranchero sandwiches from the school's cafeteria during lunch. And he plans on doing so until he's stolen, that's right, $146 worth of Ranchero's - just enough to make up for his parking permit.
According to him, the caf is set up like a one way street, in the entrance and then out near the registers at a separate exit. The drinks, however, are positioned right at the entrance, so Cunn, each day after grabbing his Ranchero, pretends like he forgot to grab a drink and doubles back toward the entrance. He checks to make sure the coast is clear, snags a coke, and walks right back out the way he came in.
Cunn, taking down the man... One Ranchero at a time.
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