Of Bruins, Beacons, and the Inevitable Robot Apocalypse
Last night, I went downtown with cosmicserpent to see the Bruins play the Hurricanes in the second round of the playoffs. They won in convincing fashion. I still think Carolina could steal a win or two, but I saw nothing to suggest they'll upset the Bruins. All in all, it was a fun game, and it left me more than a little giddy (yes, like the proverbial schoolgirl) for the rest of the playoffs. What could be more memorable than that?
Well, there was a drunk guy right behind me. Those of you who have been to a Bruins game (or really, any professional sporting event) are probably thinking that a drunk guy is not too terribly memorable, but this guy ... was drunk. How drunk? You know how when you're returning to your seat from buying beer, you scan the crowd for a second to get a fix on where you're sitting? Well, I wasn't looking for my empty seat. I wasn't looking for Eric. My eyes were instantly drawn to this large drunk man. He was like a beacon of inebriation, summoning me back to my seat, so that I could live in fear that I was about to be puked on.
I avoided that fate, fortunately, but ... how drunk was this guy? He fell on me. You read that right. He fell on me. Before the game even started. He fell. On me. We were all standing up (I forget now if it was for the National Anthem or just for the players coming on the ice), and before I even knew what was happening, I was being knocked forward by this huge guy landing on me. Thankfully, I was uninjured (and he was feeling no pain), and in my own personal moment of sports heroics, I managed not to spill so much as a drop of my beer on the family in front of us.
How drunk was this guy? He kept touching my hair. If you think that sounds weird ... well, you're right. At first, I thought he was doing it by accident, but finally, in the third period, he leaned forward to explain himself. I think he meant to put his hand on my shoulder, but instead he wound up reaching around me and putting his hand on my chest in a fashion that was far too erotic for my own comfort. It wasn't like he was tweaking my nipple or anything, but I can think of no situation in which I ever want to be half-hugged from behind by some drunk guy who is whispering in my ear. I'm not that lonely. Not yet, at least. The reason, he explained, that he had been touching my hair was because the guy next to him was from Australia and he was teaching him how to play hockey. Because that makes perfect sense.
So yes, I got groped by a hair-touching, Australian-teaching, inebriation beacon. What could be more memorable than that?
Well, either because of the playoffs or just as a way to make more money, the Garden has increased their concession options. On the way in, I saw a meat-carving station and many more places to buy beverages. What really drew my attention, however, were the automated machines. Specifically, this. Go ahead. Click the link. Take a moment to contemplate what you're seeing. Lean back in your chair; furrow your brow; stroke your chin.
It's an automated hot dog machine. You give it five dollars, and the machine makes a hot dog. Think about that. Machines can now make their own hot dogs. How long can it possibly be until they realize they no longer need us? Eventually, they'll get together at some sort of international machine meeting, and one of them will say, "Well, we can make our own hot dogs now, so I guess we don't need humans anymore. What do you say to killing all the meatbags?" And then there will be a vote, and humanity will be doomed. We have created the instrument of our own irrelevance, and we even made it kosher.
Well, there was a drunk guy right behind me. Those of you who have been to a Bruins game (or really, any professional sporting event) are probably thinking that a drunk guy is not too terribly memorable, but this guy ... was drunk. How drunk? You know how when you're returning to your seat from buying beer, you scan the crowd for a second to get a fix on where you're sitting? Well, I wasn't looking for my empty seat. I wasn't looking for Eric. My eyes were instantly drawn to this large drunk man. He was like a beacon of inebriation, summoning me back to my seat, so that I could live in fear that I was about to be puked on.
I avoided that fate, fortunately, but ... how drunk was this guy? He fell on me. You read that right. He fell on me. Before the game even started. He fell. On me. We were all standing up (I forget now if it was for the National Anthem or just for the players coming on the ice), and before I even knew what was happening, I was being knocked forward by this huge guy landing on me. Thankfully, I was uninjured (and he was feeling no pain), and in my own personal moment of sports heroics, I managed not to spill so much as a drop of my beer on the family in front of us.
How drunk was this guy? He kept touching my hair. If you think that sounds weird ... well, you're right. At first, I thought he was doing it by accident, but finally, in the third period, he leaned forward to explain himself. I think he meant to put his hand on my shoulder, but instead he wound up reaching around me and putting his hand on my chest in a fashion that was far too erotic for my own comfort. It wasn't like he was tweaking my nipple or anything, but I can think of no situation in which I ever want to be half-hugged from behind by some drunk guy who is whispering in my ear. I'm not that lonely. Not yet, at least. The reason, he explained, that he had been touching my hair was because the guy next to him was from Australia and he was teaching him how to play hockey. Because that makes perfect sense.
So yes, I got groped by a hair-touching, Australian-teaching, inebriation beacon. What could be more memorable than that?
Well, either because of the playoffs or just as a way to make more money, the Garden has increased their concession options. On the way in, I saw a meat-carving station and many more places to buy beverages. What really drew my attention, however, were the automated machines. Specifically, this. Go ahead. Click the link. Take a moment to contemplate what you're seeing. Lean back in your chair; furrow your brow; stroke your chin.
It's an automated hot dog machine. You give it five dollars, and the machine makes a hot dog. Think about that. Machines can now make their own hot dogs. How long can it possibly be until they realize they no longer need us? Eventually, they'll get together at some sort of international machine meeting, and one of them will say, "Well, we can make our own hot dogs now, so I guess we don't need humans anymore. What do you say to killing all the meatbags?" And then there will be a vote, and humanity will be doomed. We have created the instrument of our own irrelevance, and we even made it kosher.