A lot has happened since my World Series Friday photoblog, which I ineptly and foggily filed at about 2 in the morning, thus leaving out crucial details of that St. Louis baseball evening. Which is where I must pick up my story.
With the overserving of Budweiser Select beer, I thought Game 4 was going to be the scene of my first adult public piss-in-pants moment. There is a serious flaw in the new Busch Stadium in the form of a massive shortage of urinals, thus creating a dichotomy to the standard backlog of ladylines.
Waiting to pee, surrounded by a deep sea of red, a fellow potential bladder exploder three people back screamed a question about where I got my sweatshirt. When I stepped up to pee he started asking if it was a Nike sweatshirt. I told him it was and that I got it at some Cardinal Gear hub years ago. I was peeing at the point that he yelled, in front of a ton of urinal-waiters, "That's kind of a powder blue color, though. It's kind of a FAIRY color." The gauntlet was drawn. In front of others. I told him he could talk all he wanted about my sweatshirt because I was so happy to finally be peeing after waiting 10 minutes and that he was still waiting in misery so he could just keep blabbing about it and that wouldn't change where he was (misery) and where I was (heaven). The crowd was on my side and I was feeling it.
"Furthermore, look at what YOU'RE wearing!" I screamed, feeling the master-of-the-Universe buzz that only comes from ice-cold Budweiser Select. "I don't like anything you have on at all so you can keep it up about this sweatshirt! I love this sweatshirt!" I got cheered by the crowd in the bathroom and all put up their fists to touch to mine as I fought my way out in a sign of solidarity that you just don't see enough of these days. Even my foe, the lager lout, sheepishly surrendered his fist as if to say, "You got me buddy!" The night ended with my friend and I getting turned away at the President Casino, a barely floating (formerly glorious?) riverboat.