<>Seattle
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The tribe began to contemplate violence – not just any violence, but the violence that can only be inflicted by a petite 30-something professional woman on three vodka martinis and an unsteady pair of stiletto-spiked three-inch heels. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just nod, smile, whimper, and pretend like you’ve never seen a grown man in a chef’s uniform cry. I don’t pretend to comprehend this girl, but believe me, if you see a perky little customer service manager heading your way with a big smile and one hand behind her back, it’s time to rethink exactly how innocuous a pickle fork could be.
As soon as it became readily apparent that Angel of Mac and Cheese had scared off the chef with dire threats of surgery (using common dining utensils, an uncooked bratwurst, and a martini shaker as props), we settled in for burgers and fries (with tons of cheese on both). Once they arrived, Angel and her minions began watching the Seattle Storm championship (being held not three blocks away from us at Key Arena) on the television screens. Red Sox fans were grunting in their native tongue off to the side, trying in vain to get the bartender, a beefy woman named Grunhilde (I’m not kidding) to switch the channel to the baseball game. “It uhd bee weecked smaaht, yeh, dat baw gawme is aganna make hestory.”
Finally Grunhilde, in the midst of shaking yet another martini for the Prada-clad masses seated at my table, threw the shaker right up in the air. Robear, a balding man dressed far too stylishly to be considered potential husband material, clapped hollandaise-sauce encrusted hands and screamed like a nine-year old girl, “THEY WON!” After much ribbing from the grunting males at the other end of the table, Robear coughed and pointed to the empty helium balloon he’d inhaled right beforehand.
Not five seconds later does a HORDE of women, sensibly dressed in unbelted blue denim jeans come storming (heh, like the pun? Get it? Yeah? Good.) through the front door, bellowing, “SEATTLE STORM, BAY-BEE!”
The Red Sox look up, the Mac and Cheese HOORS whip out their cameras, and immediately begin documenting an urban legend in the downtown area – the spiky mullet. We had never seen such a clan, and what magnificent specimens! From the subtle, quiet Melissa Etheridge 90s look to the in-your-face mulleting of a tiny long-legged woman with a giant Styrofoam (We’re #1!!) finger still deliriously stuck on her hand, all forty of the forty-somethings sported, in one way or another, a Mullet.
Now, it should be mentioned that Red Sox fans – at least these Red Sox fans – were Southies. South Red Sox fans are the diehards. They are the boys on the docks. The ones for whom moving across town is something of an adventure. And to say nothing of moving toSeattle
Which means haircuts, too.
So immediately, once the Red Sox won THEIR game, all of the hats of the Red Sox fans went hurtling into the air, splattered with aerosolized grease particles and the remnants of Angel’s last martini. And suddenly…
A nightmare not commonly known in America, in this tiny little mahogany wood bar down the corner, before I had time to consider an escape from the horde, or even just mull it over…
The bar had become a multitude of mullets. Multiple mullets, indistinguishable from each other.
The Mac and Cheese HOOORS, dumbfounded, looked frantically for an escape. None was to be found – even Grunhilde had whipped off her hairnet and was letting loose the curls. I could almost hear the buzz of the clippers and the drawling voice of a Southie barber saying “Shawt on tawp, Long on da sides, right mac?”
I found myself asking for a Budweiser. Robear held a buffalo wing quizzically. Angel’s face had gone white, her nails clenched as her hair nearly flipped in stress, her bangs making a fighting attempt to stand straight up. We cautiously paid our tab and began sidling to the door before we were engulfed by the Horde once more, and began speaking strangely about lobsters and Samuel Adams beer being too expensive, or worse yet, describing the latest Indigo Girls’ CD as a seminal work of feminist musical theory.
Once outside, the HOOORS legged it up the street in doubletime, our half-eaten meal of burgers and buffalo wings rising in a gorge of a fashion designer’s nightmare. Could we dare tell the tale? Would we ever be able to face each other? Would Angel’s hair go back down anytime soon? And would Robear ever put down that damned buffalo wing?
Once at our cars, we quickly said our hurried good nights, and went home.
But to this day, you can still show Robear a picture of Toby Keith, and you may well see a man who faces grave danger each and every day grow weak and pale. For the mullets. The mullets have returned. And they grow ever more powerful with their allies.
Beware the Mullet. It wishes you nothing but harm.
<>
The tribe began to contemplate violence – not just any violence, but the violence that can only be inflicted by a petite 30-something professional woman on three vodka martinis and an unsteady pair of stiletto-spiked three-inch heels. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, just nod, smile, whimper, and pretend like you’ve never seen a grown man in a chef’s uniform cry. I don’t pretend to comprehend this girl, but believe me, if you see a perky little customer service manager heading your way with a big smile and one hand behind her back, it’s time to rethink exactly how innocuous a pickle fork could be.
As soon as it became readily apparent that Angel of Mac and Cheese had scared off the chef with dire threats of surgery (using common dining utensils, an uncooked bratwurst, and a martini shaker as props), we settled in for burgers and fries (with tons of cheese on both). Once they arrived, Angel and her minions began watching the Seattle Storm championship (being held not three blocks away from us at Key Arena) on the television screens. Red Sox fans were grunting in their native tongue off to the side, trying in vain to get the bartender, a beefy woman named Grunhilde (I’m not kidding) to switch the channel to the baseball game. “It uhd bee weecked smaaht, yeh, dat baw gawme is aganna make hestory.”
Finally Grunhilde, in the midst of shaking yet another martini for the Prada-clad masses seated at my table, threw the shaker right up in the air. Robear, a balding man dressed far too stylishly to be considered potential husband material, clapped hollandaise-sauce encrusted hands and screamed like a nine-year old girl, “THEY WON!” After much ribbing from the grunting males at the other end of the table, Robear coughed and pointed to the empty helium balloon he’d inhaled right beforehand.
Not five seconds later does a HORDE of women, sensibly dressed in unbelted blue denim jeans come storming (heh, like the pun? Get it? Yeah? Good.) through the front door, bellowing, “SEATTLE STORM, BAY-BEE!”
The Red Sox look up, the Mac and Cheese HOORS whip out their cameras, and immediately begin documenting an urban legend in the downtown area – the spiky mullet. We had never seen such a clan, and what magnificent specimens! From the subtle, quiet Melissa Etheridge 90s look to the in-your-face mulleting of a tiny long-legged woman with a giant Styrofoam (We’re #1!!) finger still deliriously stuck on her hand, all forty of the forty-somethings sported, in one way or another, a Mullet.
Now, it should be mentioned that Red Sox fans – at least these Red Sox fans – were Southies. South Red Sox fans are the diehards. They are the boys on the docks. The ones for whom moving across town is something of an adventure. And to say nothing of moving to
So immediately, once the Red Sox won THEIR game, all of the hats of the Red Sox fans went hurtling into the air, splattered with aerosolized grease particles and the remnants of Angel’s last martini. And suddenly…
A nightmare not commonly known in America, in this tiny little mahogany wood bar down the corner, before I had time to consider an escape from the horde, or even just mull it over…
The bar had become a multitude of mullets. Multiple mullets, indistinguishable from each other.
The Mac and Cheese HOOORS, dumbfounded, looked frantically for an escape. None was to be found – even Grunhilde had whipped off her hairnet and was letting loose the curls. I could almost hear the buzz of the clippers and the drawling voice of a Southie barber saying “Shawt on tawp, Long on da sides, right mac?”
I found myself asking for a Budweiser. Robear held a buffalo wing quizzically. Angel’s face had gone white, her nails clenched as her hair nearly flipped in stress, her bangs making a fighting attempt to stand straight up. We cautiously paid our tab and began sidling to the door before we were engulfed by the Horde once more, and began speaking strangely about lobsters and Samuel Adams beer being too expensive, or worse yet, describing the latest Indigo Girls’ CD as a seminal work of feminist musical theory.
Once outside, the HOOORS legged it up the street in doubletime, our half-eaten meal of burgers and buffalo wings rising in a gorge of a fashion designer’s nightmare. Could we dare tell the tale? Would we ever be able to face each other? Would Angel’s hair go back down anytime soon? And would Robear ever put down that damned buffalo wing?
Once at our cars, we quickly said our hurried good nights, and went home.
But to this day, you can still show Robear a picture of Toby Keith, and you may well see a man who faces grave danger each and every day grow weak and pale. For the mullets. The mullets have returned. And they grow ever more powerful with their allies.
Beware the Mullet. It wishes you nothing but harm.
