What Harry’s Night Club and Beach Bar Means to Football

I am astonished that football prevails amidst insomniacs, drunks, loose cannons, shabby surf daddies, lower case cougars (meaning sexy
from ankles down…), college dropouts, cigar smoking business execs, loose cocaine flirts, bar flies, down dirty ditz parades, balding Charlie Sheen’s without the wallet the female money or the disease, and the rest of the entourage at a smoke stapled C grade club where all that’s served is alcohol in a milk container with a chaser of a thrice squeezed lime by a man named Daddy-O (who is named Daddy-O?) who overtly wreaks of pine tar and crack ashes in order to ascertain some strong standstill of brooding dominance over the recourse of the entire miss mesh of street hipsters and junkies seeking on-the-dime fixes or a one-night-hit-party of the down and deep don’t stop till you sleep commiseration of lust. Forgive the rant, but the party just begun…because USC just took a field goal back to the Promised Land and a riled group of rag tag forgetables
are dancing. No matter where the soul lingers—funeral, the middle of the pacific seeking Tina the Tuna who weighs 500 not counting her ovaries,5^th grade graduation, slitting of the wrist during a rainy afternoon musing over a concerto of Trip Hop A-B monotony, Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter commercial where one is shining the left butt appendage of Fabio Lanzoni or an average mass singing Ave Maria with the Mormon
Tabernacle Boys Choir and a host of lazy eyed cardinals dressed in speedo with a personal massage therapist, the rippling Hercules clad in pants that not only cut off circulation to the major area of necessity- considering the continued proliferation of the homosapian specie should we be worried?- will marvel and amaze even the average of us Americans. The sinister, delirious and far too jacked Nor Call Truck thumpers who find more pleasure in inflicting pain to cat by pellet gun then they do omitting hella’ and the unneeded Monster stickers slung up behind their shadowed head at driver’s seat. It seems Americans have been cursed: we feed our children steroids and we love football to the point of stupidity. But where there is football there is fun, or some form of fun, which relatively speaking seems less likely to attract a prune brined breath stinking
woman named Orinda from Cambria with a dog named Choo Choo Train and a cat who eats caviar spiced by shallot and pinion. Apart from our stupidity, football alleviates the mind—seemingly a bit easier than one who would wish to admit, but I, the writer of atrocity, lover and hater of the pad bashing closet carnality of the game, admit, alone the affair is silly but in a group the game builds camaraderie. It takes but one to toss an Atom bomb over Japan and two to love a football game. So tonight if you’re wandering about the continuum of the luminesce insanity of moral relativity, theoretic of pacifism, time travel akin to notions of bi-numeric afterlife (meaning: rebirth), derivative of psychological manipulated hysteria by pod of sub-conscious lateral inception, or simply eating a crumpet with a bit of organic Trader Joes pumpkin butter with a spritzer water and a round spectacled glance through consciously aware eye ways slit like almonds, remember, football is the easiest way to escape bobbling your head in a feces colored public toilet or waking only to find your underwear bound around the lips of She He. It is cheaper and safer: sexually transmitted diseases as of now cannot be passed through airwaves. Until then, please note:  married and pre-but partly married men, priest, choir boys and presidential figures can count on the separation between touch and actual touch with the twisting twirling highlighting Cowboys cheer leaders and do it all in fleece Bart Simpson pajamas with a parakeet named Poop on the shoulder and a glimmering glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.