by Henry on Nov. 10, 2005 @ 5:28 PM

Last night I met up with my friend, Brian, and a couple of his friends from college at a neighborhood bar. From the second I laid eyes on this bunch, I knew it wasn't going to end well. First off they were all wearing backwards fitted caps, which I've decided is never a very good sign. Then the first one I met, a laddish Aryan with a very distinct jawline, greeted me by imitating my hello with his best British accent, which, like most imitations I've been lucky enough to hear, made him sound mildly autistic. Needless to say, this witticism went over very big with his friends.

I made a conscious effort to keep my head about me for most of the night because Brian is a pretty good friend of mine and I didn't feel like presenting him with the awkward choice of taking sides between me and this all-star team of former schoolyard bullies. So as the discussion moved from "hot chicks we've banged" to "this ridiculous car Damon bought" to "that waitress who wants it," I maintained a false but convincing joviality. However, my best intentions were thwarted when the conversation turned towards the summer's world cup in Germany and "PJ" insightfully remarked, "I'm glad no one in America likes soccer. It's mad gay."

This clearly was not going to stand. When all eyes turned to the foreigner and the table got quiet, I asked him calmly what sport he enjoyed. He replied, "Uh, lacrosse." As it so happened, they all had played lacrosse together at Johns Hopkins five years back. Fortunately for me, I had been to a Major League Lacrosse game the previous spring in Long Island and not only realized at the time that it was perhaps the worst sport on the planet, but had noted a few reasons why. After taking a dramatic pause, I told him that Lacrosse to me was a little like the Special Olympics, except that the disability was being rich and white and from Virginia. He countered by informing me that "Bro, Lacrosse was invented by Native Americans." I countered again with "...and perfected by sick douchebags."

Having made my point, I picked my coat off the back of my chair and basically ran out the door of the bar. Tomorrow I have to remember to go to a stationary store to look for a regret-based Hallmark card for Brian.