“I was up near Mendocino trading crank for fake Nazi memorabilia when I stopped into a local pool hall to shoot some eight-ball and pick a fight with an Oregonian. Met this fine honey there, we started riding together.”
“That’s right, baby. Let Big Poppa Bob talk, okay?”
“Sorry, Big Poppa Bob.”
“Oh, I forgive you, my luscious lamb.”
“We ride into San Bernadino, except I had plumb forgot to let the Angels know about me being on their turf, and then one of the Angels–Wretched Gary, I think it was–sees me and, well: it becomes this whole thing.
“The Angels swarm us and next thing y’know, we’re in their clubhouse, and if you know anything about the Angels or their clubhouses, you know that your screams will not be heard. Also, the bathrooms are filthy, but that’s to be assumed.
“We’re going back and forth about respect and territory and honor and carburetors and pomade and then this little filly here volunteers to shangalang the Angels’ wangs to make the whole thing even. It was such a gritty, team-first move.”
“The only stat that matters is W-L.”
“You got that right, honeybuttocks.”
“Oh, the arm? Well, if we’re being completely honest here: Big Poppa Bobby has always enjoyed partaking in the splendor that is a good blowbang.”
“He sprained his wrist jerking it to me slobbering a Motorcycle Club.”
“That, I did.”
Stop this right now.