Colby "Fist of God" B.'s Profile

Trudy's. Were I deserving of your love, I would write this review in verse.

Trudy's. Where I told a political candidate in our group who was in a runoff that I hadn't voted for him the first time and I was looking forward to not voting for him again.

Trudy's. Where I watched a sloshed six foot one Brazilian lesbian with three lip piercings teach a friend some filthy Portuguese before boarding a flight back to LA.

Trudy's. In college, I had convinced my parents you were a gas station so my bank statement wouldn't betray my illicit love for your Mexican Martinis. 1800. Grand Marnier. Salt half the glass ... but you know how I like it, Trudy's. You always know.

Trudy's. Where I ran into the cop who had given me a speeding ticket four days before.

Trudy's. Where I got a cop to tear up my speeding ticket after buying him four shots of Jager.

Trudy's. Where, in your parking lot, a cop who had just committed to dismissing a speeding ticket for me, administered a field sobriety test and decided I was good to go. (I either have fantastic tolerance or the key to field sobriety tests is to make sure the cop is drunker than you are.)

Trudy's. Where I might have my Last Supper in Austin, if I can get all my crap packed up and loaded.

Trudy's. We'll always have Paris.

Still do not want. But I do want to try out this "update review" function.

Look, Eurotrash fuckstick. I have exactly 8 minutes between meetings and, what with Oakville Grocery closing, the only place I can walk and snag something breakfasty is this Starbucks.

So, why, Eurotrash fuckstick, would you try to take as many of those 8 minutes as humanly possible spelling, re-spelling and spelling again (and AGAIN) your very foreign name for the goddamned, overwhelmed barista?

G-I-U-S-E-P-P-M-V-R-T-I-Need you to get the fuck out of my way, before I get testy ... and low blood sugar.

Also, for future encounters, your name is Gary. Embrace it. It will end the hail of mental bullets I am firing at the back of your skull.

You're here for our women, aren't you?

Being here tonight made me throw up on my soul.

I wanted to call my credit card in stolen, so as to erase any record of my presence, but I just couldn't leave the little guy behind.

That kind of friendship ought to get me my own American Express commercial.

So I boarded Radley a couple weeks ago when I was out of town. He's been coming here as long as I've had him.

So I go to check out, and I remember he needs heartworm medicine. "I need some heartworm medicine," I tell them, which seems like the appropriate thing to say in such a situation.

"Is it for Radley?" they ask.

"Yeah. Just how many other dogs are on my account?"

"Well, there's Dottie, Sam and Betty and Chewy."

Wow. Went to the vet and got a crash course in my dating history. It's tantamount to going to the barber and having him remind you of all the stupid haircuts women have talked you into.

"Since I no longer talk to any of their mothers, I think it's probably safe for you to take them off my account."

The vet tech starts mashing some keys. Looks up and says, "Sam is dead."

I was gripped by sadness. My jaw dropped. A tear paused before rolling down my cheek. It was like that commercial.

I thought about Sam. That cute little rambunctious dachsund mix. I remembered him chasing both my Dalmatian and the ex' pit mix around with ferocious ferocity. They outweighed him by scientific notation. But it really is all about the size of the dog in the fight.

I thought about half my gym shorts that still don't fit right because he ate the drawstrings out of them like they were candy. I thought about how he used to burrow into you if you were laying on the couch. I thought about how he spent the whole winter in front of the space heater. Shivering. I thought about how he used to talk my dog into misbehaving. I thought about how he apparently used to get under the ex' roommate's bed and crap. And no one noticed for months.

And months.

I hadn't seen him in a long time, but I missed Sam. He had personality. He had spunk. I said a little prayer for him. And his sister and mom.

"Wait," I said, barely holding back that tear. "How do you know Sam is dead?"

"Oh. I mean I took him off your account."

(Seriously, though. They're great vets and a great kennel.)

I really wish they were located 1.6 miles east. In other words, the exact spot where I ran out of gas last week.

Wednesday night, I ordered the Rick Barnes. The last 8 minutes it spent on my plate, it just sat there, trying to run out the clock and never took a good shot.

That's good strategy, sandwich.

Tuesday night, I walk in The Halligan. It's a firefighter themed bar, you see, and Patrick's behind the bar. He turns on the siren. Exclaims, "Hey!"

The crowd joins him, "Hey!"

I throw my hands in the air and join in, "Hey, everybody! Good to see you all."

"Where you been?" Patrick asks me.

"Here and there, my man. Here and there. And sometimes, I wonder how the F I got here. And there."

If you know me, this exchange might seem perfectly normal. This sort of thing does happen to me pretty regularly in the places I frequent.

What's remarkable is I HAD NEVER BEEN IN RICHMOND, VIRGINIA IN MY LIFE.

I was in town to interview for my dream job the next day. I'm taking my time at the Halligan as a good sign. Seems like my kind of town. Very welcoming.

The lady in the gift shop called me Papi.

Then she charged me $2 for a packet of two Advil.

Como se dice, "sugar daddy?"

However, this place did afford me the opportunity to have the following text message exchange with a friend:

Him: This will shock you, but Willie Nelson's weed is outstanding.
Me: This won't shock you, but I'm looking at the Chrysler Building.
Him: On your tv?

Also, I'm currently sharing music with someone named "Fruit Salad" on their wireless network. "Fruit Salad" owns lots of Barenaked Ladies.

I'm dedicating this review to all the pinheads in town for SXSW. You pale, scrawny vegans from San Francisco can review BBQ joints while you pocket mulch all you want. Nothing is more Texan than talking propane and propane accessories.

You know that memo that says don't use a propane heater indoors?

Yeah, well, they didn't get that memo at the Longbranch.

The last time I was in here (admittedly several months ago) I sat at the bar for a couple hours shooting the shit with a friend. And then, I realized what it was that wasn't sitting right with me. Namely being indoors and staring at a lit propane heater.

Thatherton!