“Fear and Loathing in Morgantown”
-- A Short Story by “Angry Ty”
Fear and Loathing in Morgantown:
Chapter 1
Although I fly more than anyone I know, I still get a feeling of palpable dread when I get onto an plane. While it may be, statistically speaking, the safest way mankind has ever devised for travelling from Point A to Point B, the confinement and utter lack of control a passenger submits to never fails to leave me unnerved. Moreover, my pre-flight unease was compounded by the fact that in less than 24 hours, I would be in Morgantown, West Virginia, rooting for the nearly impossible outcome of a Boston College victory over the hated Hillbillies, while simultaneously hoping to survive the whole experience. At moments like these, some men seek to make peace with their God, others stoically bear the burden saying nothing and thinking nothing, while others retreat into deep, contemplative thought. Not I. I drink heavily.
First, I stopped at the chain-restaurant bar next to my departure gate and had an absurdly large bloody mary to take the edge off. I followed this up with a large beer served in a ridiculous collectible stein. I rationalized consuming the beer before Noon (a bloody mary is a proper breakfast beverage and needs no rationalizing), by pointing out to my conscience that it was after Noon in my destination, the nation's capital, Washington D.C. My binge drinking was nothing more than a savvy attempt to get my body acclimated to east coast time.
Once on board, and strapped to my seat, I ordered my customary pre-flight Johnny Walker Blue. This would be followed by a few additional and miscellaneous drinks during the course of the flight.
I arrived at Dulles at around 9:00 pm and was met by my host, who we will call Pemberton. Pemberton was a classmate of mine at Harvard Law School and a graduate of Dartmouth College, a school long famous for producing great lawyers and towering politicians, as well as drunks and iredeemable sex offenders. Where Pemberton fits in this pantheon is still unclear to most who know him. It was Pemberton, who now works as a high priced lobbying whore for the firearms industry, who had received the tickets to the BC-West Virginia game and who had invited me to enjoy them. Pemberton had accepted the tickets to the game, despite having no connection to either school, because he is a cynical bastard who loves both sports and observing the human condition at its most base. In his view, the BC-West Virginia game promised to provide indulgence for both passions.
Pemberton and I had decided that in order to fully appreciate Morgantown, we would need to drink copious amounts of alcohol, at an almost unceasing pace. This plan called for us to drink heavily in one of Georgetown's numerous watering holes, followed by a no more than two hour respite, followed by an early morning four hour drive out to Morgantown, during which, ample alcohol could be consumed. There was no plan for anything occuring after the BC-West Virginia game, because frankly, neither Pemberton nor I were confident that we would actually survive that event.
Arriving at Pemberton's ride, an obscenely ostentatious Escalade with a prominently displayed NRA bumpersticker, Pemberton popped the back open to reveal two coolers, one filled with an ample amount of well-iced and suitably imported beer, the other empty save for an inviting bottle of my pre-flight stalwart, Johnny Walker Blue. Things were definitely looking up... To Be Continued...
-- A Short Story by “Angry Ty”
Fear and Loathing in Morgantown:
Chapter 1
Although I fly more than anyone I know, I still get a feeling of palpable dread when I get onto an plane. While it may be, statistically speaking, the safest way mankind has ever devised for travelling from Point A to Point B, the confinement and utter lack of control a passenger submits to never fails to leave me unnerved. Moreover, my pre-flight unease was compounded by the fact that in less than 24 hours, I would be in Morgantown, West Virginia, rooting for the nearly impossible outcome of a Boston College victory over the hated Hillbillies, while simultaneously hoping to survive the whole experience. At moments like these, some men seek to make peace with their God, others stoically bear the burden saying nothing and thinking nothing, while others retreat into deep, contemplative thought. Not I. I drink heavily.
First, I stopped at the chain-restaurant bar next to my departure gate and had an absurdly large bloody mary to take the edge off. I followed this up with a large beer served in a ridiculous collectible stein. I rationalized consuming the beer before Noon (a bloody mary is a proper breakfast beverage and needs no rationalizing), by pointing out to my conscience that it was after Noon in my destination, the nation's capital, Washington D.C. My binge drinking was nothing more than a savvy attempt to get my body acclimated to east coast time.
Once on board, and strapped to my seat, I ordered my customary pre-flight Johnny Walker Blue. This would be followed by a few additional and miscellaneous drinks during the course of the flight.
I arrived at Dulles at around 9:00 pm and was met by my host, who we will call Pemberton. Pemberton was a classmate of mine at Harvard Law School and a graduate of Dartmouth College, a school long famous for producing great lawyers and towering politicians, as well as drunks and iredeemable sex offenders. Where Pemberton fits in this pantheon is still unclear to most who know him. It was Pemberton, who now works as a high priced lobbying whore for the firearms industry, who had received the tickets to the BC-West Virginia game and who had invited me to enjoy them. Pemberton had accepted the tickets to the game, despite having no connection to either school, because he is a cynical bastard who loves both sports and observing the human condition at its most base. In his view, the BC-West Virginia game promised to provide indulgence for both passions.
Pemberton and I had decided that in order to fully appreciate Morgantown, we would need to drink copious amounts of alcohol, at an almost unceasing pace. This plan called for us to drink heavily in one of Georgetown's numerous watering holes, followed by a no more than two hour respite, followed by an early morning four hour drive out to Morgantown, during which, ample alcohol could be consumed. There was no plan for anything occuring after the BC-West Virginia game, because frankly, neither Pemberton nor I were confident that we would actually survive that event.
Arriving at Pemberton's ride, an obscenely ostentatious Escalade with a prominently displayed NRA bumpersticker, Pemberton popped the back open to reveal two coolers, one filled with an ample amount of well-iced and suitably imported beer, the other empty save for an inviting bottle of my pre-flight stalwart, Johnny Walker Blue. Things were definitely looking up... To Be Continued...
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