Jay Needs Hobo Stab Insurance

I live a charmed life, indeed. It should be a crime for me to have such fun. Following are the events that led up to the third best day of my life – Friday, November 10, 2007. That evening I ranked the events of my life. Initially, I placed it in the top five. After considerable reflection, I realized it ranked number three. Of course all men would agree what event holds the first position. Second, well, I am not saying at this time. This was definitely number three.

Today I wake up at the crack of 2:30 PM to find myself in the following condition. My left knee hurts along with my left elbow and right shoulder. My legs are sore. I have an assortment of bruises and scrapes – some in rather unusual places. My $600 ostrich boots are scuffed. I wonder to myself, “What the hell?” I stroll to get me a DP and see the Mexican porno lying on the floor. Then I get a big, Cheshire Cat grin as I recall the events from the previous evening.

Friday arrives. I am working and get an email on my NerdBerry from my apprentice. He is the first person that the Lodge has assigned to me to mentor. This guy is the ideal candidate.

The email is an invitation to join him at Morton’s for drinks and dinner. His treat. He wants me to meet his fiance. Great! I thought. So, I reply in the affirmative. We will meet for drinks at 6:30 and our dinner reservation is for 7:00.

I have never been to Morton’s. It is a really great place. The food and service is impeccable. Literally. Everything about that place would rival Crystal. (Someday I need to write something about Crystal so that people will understand what I am saying. Let’s just say that it is the world’s only six star cruise line, and there is a HUGE difference between the 5.5 star line and Crystal. I know, because I have been on both.)

Back to the story minus the Morton’s experience.

I arrive in downtown Dallas and find a place to park. As I am paying the meter, a bum walks up to me with a ticket and informs me that I am supposed to pay him. You see where this is going, don’t you? The train has left the station, and I have a one way ticket to hell. I give the guy money effectively getting screwed royally. I watch the events unfold in slow motion. This crackhead bum thinks he is going to make me his bitch.

I call Darth, give him a landmark to find me and tell him to come looking for me if I am not there in 15 minutes as I would either be injured or incarcerated. Little did I know that what would happen would literally take seconds.

The dumbass crackhead bum obviously has never played organized sports and could not comprehend that a slightly overweight white boy completely sober can run a 40 yard dash in five seconds. He is less than 100 feet away and is not sprinting. I get the biggest smile on my face. This is gonna be great.

I tear off as if I am being chased by a gang of street thugs with guns. Surely this guy can hear the thud-skid-thud-skid of my leather soled boots pounding the pavement at a ridiculously fast pace.

The jogging bum looks over his shoulder and sees the 188 lb can of whip ass with the biggest grin he has ever seen gaining on him. Why didn’t he just stop running and give up? I would have stopped, put my arm over his shoulder, laughed my ass of, thanked him for the experience and given him more money for making my day. But, NNNEEEEEEEWWWWW. Dumbass crackhead thinks he is gonna out run this white boy.

By the time I catch up with him, he has covered about 100 yards in 30 seconds compared to my 10 seconds. Let us review the disparity of this situation:

Bum: 5’11″ 160 lbs more or less.
Jay: 6’0″ 188 lbs.
Bum: Runs the equivalent of a 9-10 second 40 after he realizes what is about to happen.
Jay: Runs a 40 in 5 seconds, but I have adrenaline surging.
Bum: Probably drunk.
Jay: Totally sober.
Bum: Thinks drinking and swindling are a sport.
Jay: Played tackle on a state championship football team.

I might have made the best executed open-field tackle of my life. Darren Woodson would be proud. The cracking of the man’s back was a reminder to me that he understood I was the chiropractor from hell as my right shoulder made contact with the lower middle portion of his back.

When we hit the ground, I rolled over his shoulder, onto mine and immediately landed on my feet fully erect with my CrackBerry skidding across the parking lot. I know he has one or more broken ribs, but there isn’t shit you can do about that. I expected the dude to yell or curse or something. There was no noise other than that made by his writhing body scraping the pavement.

Okay, that is a good sign. He is still alive and no serious damage as he has what could be loosely be considered muscle control if not bowel control.

I am laughing my ass off, but wondering why he isn’t screaming because that was a freaking AWESOME hit. Then, I understand that I knocked the wind out of him as he makes the most obnoxious wind sucking sound I have ever heard as he catches his breath. UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

I am standing over him still shouting and pointing at him, “YOU THA MAN! THAT WAS AWESOME! LET’S DO IT AGAIN!” He curls into a fetal position and cries. I feel sorry and pull out a $20 and stuff it in his back pocket of his jeans as I say to him, “That’s gonna hurt for a few weeks.”

As I leave him, I told him, “Dude, you shoulda just stopped and admitted you tried to swindle me. I would not have hurt you. I am really a nice guy.”

Then I move my car so the guy doesn’t decide to get even by using it as the object of his retaliation. I pay yet again for the privilege of parking downtown. Jeez, that is the most expensive and crappy parking spot I have ever had, but worth every penny.

I go into Morton’s sweating, slightly out of breath and explain to Darth what happened.

It is now 7:05 on Friday evening. The night has yet to begin, and it only gets better. Maybe I will explain later how I end up with a Mexican porno flick. That event took place at 11:30 to 11:45. I will cherish it as the trophy to commemorate the third best night of my life.