[Preface: Y'all might have been wondering where my astounding and detailed write-up on my trip to Maine is. Yeah. Me too. Fact is, at this point it's actually become a fricking albatross around my neck. I started it, got sick, went all brain-deady, and now here I am. Dreading it.
So I'm taking a mulligan on this one. I need to clear the decks, wipe the slate clean, defrag my mental hard drive. I hereby declare that I am releasing myself from my obligation to write that post. Forgive me.
Buuuuuuuut... I have one incident that must be shared. The Supermarket Incident. And so we're clear on this... while I, at times, may be liberal in my truth-telling abilities, this story is 100% factual. I got witnesses and everything. So here goes...]
We have two hours before our last game of the day, so we figure that this would be a prime occasion to find ourselves some beer before the evening festivities. So myself, Greg, Dan, Garth, and Tessa all pile into the Alero-Of-The-Mighty-Hump and head off into the big bad world of ORONO, MAINE.
We drive around for a while, trying to find a place that will offer us a wide range of fine beers to choose from when we see our destination ahead of us — a supermarket. Being from the land of no booze outside of government-run liquor stores, we’re all mildly titillated by the notion that we can buy beer at the same place that we can buy bread. Or Ziploc freezer bags. OR BOTH AT THE SAME TIME.
The men all head into the store, leaving Tessa — she of the sprained ankle — to partake of the sublime joys of the parking lot. We step into the blinding fluorescent glare. And look right. The left. And there it is.
The beer aisle.
A whole AISLE.
Our eyes glazing over, we spread out through the beer aisle, senses overwhelmed by the sheer mass of foreign (i.e., American) beers. There are at least six coolers filled with beer, as well as several towering displays in the middle of the floor.
We get to work, wondering what we’re going to get. Some are thinking, “I wonder what the good microbrews are?” Others — “I wonder if Corona tastes the same here as it does in Canada?” Me? “Ooooo… pretty bottles…”
And one other person?
“Oh look. A basketball net. I wonder if I can dunk it-”
There I stand, deciding between Rolling Rock and Pabst Blue Ribbon (FYI: I got both), WHEN I AM SUDDENLY ASSAULTED BY A MASSIVE BARRAGE OF NOISE.
WHAM! BAM! CRASH! SMASH! TANG! TUNG! KUNG! TUSH! PUF! TINKLE! TANK! WHUMP! FUMP!
The noise — WHUPPAWHUPPAWHUPPA! — it keeps on coming. WUPANG! I stand there frozen — TANGLEANGLEANGLE! — as the noise proceeds for five FERCRUNCH! ten FERCRLANK! fifteen seconds WUBAM! without a rest. BAMBAMBAM!
Finally — with a single, forlorn THUMP! — the noise ends.
I turn around.
What had (fifteen seconds previously) been a pyramid of FORTY TO FIFTY CASES OF BUD LIGHT — with a purely decorative promotional basketball hoop hovering over it — was now a wide swath of destruction spread out over the entire floor of the beer aisle.
With Dan standing next to the basketball hoop.
For those wondering — yes, it appears that he could “dunk it”.
Silence.
Dan: “Should I run away?”
(Sudden mental image: Us finding Dan huddled in the back of the Produce section, tearfully muttering to himself, “I wanna go back to Canada… I wanna go back to Canada…”)
More silence.
Finally broken by the most world-weary voice I have ever heard come out of a supermarket loudspeaker:
“John… to the service counter… John… to the service counter.”
