A Medieval Nobleman Recalls a Visit to Champp’s Americana, Part 1

Yesterday, my friend Sextus and I repaired to the local Champp’s, ostensibly to watch the Cincinnati Bengals concuss and be concussed while ultimately prevailing in unremarkable fashion against a Buffalo Bills team starting a recently furloughed park ranger at QB. And sort of watch the other games at the same time.

Upon emerging from the vomitorium and scanning the myriad viewing surfaces scattered throughout this cellulite (and cellulose, lots of wood everywhere) coliseum, my heretofore fully functional, 20/20-but-full-disclosure-one-time-they-said-I-had-an-astigmatism eyeballs detected divers fauna of the canine(-murdering), bovine (Texans), and porcine (Andy Reid) varieties, multiple fellow felines, and three flavors of marauding vagrant folk. And yet neither the flaming coiffure of our field general, Andy Dalton, nor the drooping visage of coach Marvin Lewis were blasting my rods or my cones. With dread in my heart, I hailed the buxom concierge, inquiring, pray tell, did they fucking contract the Bengals late last night, JesusChristwhatthehellisgoingon? Crestfallen, she replied that my beloved bestriped Bengals had been besmirched, banishéd to the patio, because “the manager is a Browns fan.”

Abscond to yon patio? What choice did we have? Jettisoned like common detritus, we emerged onto said terrace, which, as promised by the friendly hosting wench, contained two televisions projecting our quarry, positioned as polar opposite ends of the space, perhaps in an attempt by the diabolical manager to have both screens create an infinite strange loop of glare upon the other. Euclid, however, would prevail this day.We scanned the area for lifeforms, immediately noticing a rather large group of bipeds sporting identical t-shirts proclaiming the wearer to be one of Maggie’s Magical Magpies or some bullshit; I actually have no idea what they said. Upon further exploration, Sextus’ tricorder was able to detect a group of septuagenarians at our seven o’clock (which, had I thought to inform them at the time of their relative location, the mere uttering of words representing such a late hour may have induced a fatal torpor).Averse to offending the bluehairs with our wanton and profane commentary, we alit next to Maggie and her brood. Little did we know, magpie nesting behavior includes spontaneous bouts of swordplay, and it was not long before these roustabouts began rudely jostling us with each parry and riposte. There was no time to wonder whether the Depend Adult Undergarments® cupping those bedsored buttocks would be a suitable dike for the staccato series of sharts surely surmising from these postprandial pensioners. Menus in hand, we gingerly approached the blast radius.


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