You all know what Monday night is.
Monday night is 9-ball Tournament night.
So Scrappy puts on his brand-new Poison (20 Years of Rock ‘n’ Ruin) t-shirt, laces up his combat boots, and jumps on the T, listening to a pleasant, soothing little ditty called “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry, and off he goes to the tournament.
Scrappy signs in. Spells his own name correctly. Success!
Scrappy gets a rack of balls, walks over to a table, dropping nothing. Success!
Scrappy sets up some drills. Cut drills- 100%. Bank drills- 100%. Success!
Scrappy’s pal **Montreal Cheesecake **enters the bar. MC and **Scrappy **play some warmup games. Scrappy wins every single one. Success!
Scrappy is flying high. His shots are dropping, his banks are banking, his cuts are cutting, his flux capacitors are… fluxing. Life is good.
Then SHE walks in. SHE is 6’1". She is perfectly proportioned. She is blonde. She has riveting blue eyes. She is wearing a Little Black Dress. She has no business whatsoever being in a pool hall. She is the kind of woman you HAVE to talk to or regret it for two straight weeks.
That crashing, tinkling sound you just heard was Scrappy’s concentration flying right out the window.
Angle calculations, third-shot decisions, leaves… all these thought processes went out the window, replaced by the following:
-Ring? OK, no ring. Potentially single.
-Where’s she sitting? Outside? Waitress seating.
-Who’s with her? Girlfriends? Boyfriend?
-Hmmm… four guys, two girls. Dressed pretty well.
-Business? Party? What’s their connection to each other?
-Are any of her friends approachable?
-Here she comes. There she goes. My goodness.
-Oh, no. Little black dress, full-backed underwear, not even bikini-cut.
-Bad sign. Means she doesn’t care what her ass looks like to other people.
-If she doesn’t care what her ass looks like to other people, she’s either:
-in a relationship (established)
-unaware how good she looks.
-It’s not the second- she carries herself pretty damn confidently. Must be the first.
-Here she comes. There she goes. My goodness.
-Full-backed underwear. DAMN.
While all this is going through Scrappy’s head, West Side Rob is casually sinking balls. Scrappy is looking like the bastard stepchild of Jeanette Lee on the brown acid and Tweek from South Park in herion withdrawal.
Best of five. Scrappy, down two games to none, watches **West Side Rob **drop the 9 on the break. Into the loser’s bracket goes Scrappy.
Out steps Scrappy for a between-round cigarette, in just enough time to see a pair of full-backed underwear, covered by a Little Black Dress, walking off arm-in-arm with Some Dude. The perfect prelude to a quick three-game loss in the consolation round.
The moral of the story?
There is no moral of the story, except maybe keep your mind on business and stop worrying about what random hotties’ undergarments mean to you.