The Neon Buffalo

“You’ve got to go.  We’re closed”

I looked up at the woman speaking to me, nodded my head, took a sip from my beer, and headed out the door.  I turned around waiting for all my kickball friends to walk out the door behind me…waiting…waiting…waiting…nobody.  It was at that point that I looked up above the door at the restaurant’s neon sign.  Suddenly it hit me that I was not at Kelly’s Irish Times in DC.  I was at Buffalo Wild Wings…In Virginia.  What the what?

Only a few hours earlier life was good.  Despite being not allowed to play in the kickball game I decided to still hang out and drink some beers with my teammates.  It was one girl’s birthday (I seem to recall she was dressed as a raccoon for some reason) and we were supposed to be celebrating.  Let’s just ignore the fact that the week before she also had a birthday party…but I guess that’s fine.  Birthdays every day!  It wasn’t until halfway through the 8th or so flip cup game did we realize that the girl was not even playing with us, but maybe at her birthday party next week she will join the team.

The night was going great.  Well, as great as a night can go when you are in a disgusting sunlight-deprived asbestos ridden dungeon for the 30th straight week chugging shitty beer out of a cup that 8 other sick kickballers drank out of just minutes before you poured your beer into it.  Then, in the most cliché kickball thing that could ever happen, somebody (it’s always “somebody” it is never a person’s name) handed me a shot of Fireball and after that (seriously a direct quote from 100 people who drank fireball ) “the night got fuzzy”.

I remember dancing around a table in some kind of strange musical flip cup game.  I remember dancing around a table in some kind of non-flip cup game.  Basically, I just remember constantly dancing around a table.  And, as an added bonus, DJ Skip-Songs Halfway Through only played Blurred Lines 40 times, a lean night.  Oh, and I think I saw a guy in a Larry the Cable Guy sleeveless business suit trying to get me to sign a petition or something...I think...

About $60 later (I miss Sunday bartender’s “ghost pitchers”) the next thing I remember is staring at that giant shiny yellow buffalo sign.  I don’t think I took a metro…I don’t think I took a cab…I sure as hell didn’t drive…and I don’t even have a bike (one guy on my team did, and he apparently fell off his bike and almost got a BUI).  I had no clue how I got there, why I went there, and what was going on.  I looked at my phone…it was 10:30pm aka the time I usually head OUT to the bar.  I think the only thing to do here is yada yada what happened, but I walked out of the bar, Yada Yada Yada, and I woke up 30 minutes from my home.

The next day, as I was roaming the streets of Arlington trying to find my car, walking past all the people in suits while I was in my sleeveless kickball gear from the night before, I realized that perhaps my life has taken a step in the wrong direction.  Why am I not in a suit?  Why am I not at a job?  Why am I the only one with vomit on their shirt?  Why do I kickball?

That thought lasted about 3 minutes as the email thread explaining the bar-night lit up my phone and already everyone was wondering how we were going to top the previous night in just 6 short days.  And I don't know how we are going to do it, but knowing us, we will...