4.7% ABV on draught
The usher took his job far too seriously and despite the fact that inclement weather had left the close LF bleachers completely empty, Batch and I were kicked out of the section where Derek and Whitey’s real seats were. Our tickets fucking sucked so there was no way we were sitting there. Luckily, Vice Blog Ambassador Batch knew about a sit-down bar nearby where we could get loaded for three hours while kinda keeping our eyes on the diamond in case anything interested happened. Even better, we had table service like we were at some hot club. That is if a hot club served nachos and chicken fingers.
I scanned the bar’s lackluster beer menu, keying in on some house beer called “Homerun (sic) Ale.” I’m such a dumb sucker for house beers which are essentially just crappy macros dressed up with colorful names that usually relate to the venue they’re being served at. (So a hospital might serve O.R. IPA, a bowling alley 7-10 Split Lager, and an Applebee’s could have a house beer called Wooden Burger Pilsner.) Unfortunately, our waiter Donte had to report that the Homerun tap was kicked. In fact, every single tap in the bar was kicked save two–Leinenkugel’s Sunset Wheat (no surprise, it’s fucking terrible) and some local Virginia beer called Dominion Ale. Derek had told me earlier that Dominion was actually good so I gladly ordered one.
As with most of his picks, he was correct–Dominion was good. Rich, dark, flavorful, drinkable. Nutty, malty, with some good hops. Plastic Nationals cups are probably not the best vessel for drinking craft beer, but you make do with what you have. I suppose the best review I can give of Dominion Ale is to say that I quickly dispatched with my first one.
Eagerly wanting another, I signaled for Donte with the international sign for another round. With sad eyes he came over to report that now Dominion was tapped and all that remained was the dreadful Sunset Wheat! It was only the 3rd inning! The Presidents Race hadn’t even occured yet! Of course we were not going to drink Sunset Wheat for six more innings–we have some standards–so we gave Donte a credit card and asked to tab out. No surprise, the stadium’s credit card machines were not working. Christ. Get your shit together, Nationals. Good Lord, I’ve seen fucking freshman keggars run better and more efficiently.
I thought we should make a sprint from the bar and just not pay these incompetent boobs, but Batch is nicer than me. He exited to get some cash, leaving me alone in the bar as collateral. I had nothing to do but watch Nats/Orioles baseball. Yuck. I chose instead to stare in slack-jawed awe at the fellow bar patrons around me. I’ve always thought that NYC attracted the most despicable yokel tourists but perhaps that crown actually goes to DC. I was the only man in the bar with pockets on my pants! Jorts were too classy for these folks who mostly sported shorts made of mesh or sweat material. Or maybe these people simply can’t find pocketed lowerware for people this obese. I had to be the only person in the area under three bills. The only person that had actually seen his genitalia in the last decade. I truly believe that some of these people came to the game simply because they loved the food there!
I highly suspect some of these customers had had a conversation like this earlier in the evening.
INT. SHOPPING MALL FOOD COURT - AFTERNOON
Fat Husband: What ya’ wanna do for supper?
Fat Wife: Chili cheese fries with a side of Dippin’ Dots?
Fat Husband: You thinkin’ what I’m thinking?
Both in unison: Ballpark!
(heavy wheezing ensues)
Before I was completely disgusted with humanity–but not before I’d noticed some 400 pounder in an Alonzo Mourning Nets jersey and tried to figure out when Zo actually was a Net–Batch returned with the loot and he was able to bail me out of the bar prison. We quickly went to find Derek and Whitey so as we could get the fuck out of the ballpark and back to civilization–and quality beer.