A farewell to Uber260

Well we sent Uber260 off in style with a weekend full of crazy.

Friday was an early sketch show, Uber260’s last with his group. I raced over to Triple Crown from work to have a pre-show shot and brew with Kodez and Brownsox. We finished our drinks, saw the show, and were back in the bar 75 minutes after we left (that’s what I can a night at the theatre). The whole sketch gang came by for a pint, as well as Uber260’s siblings. One of the uber260 sibs was the youngest uber, or as some of you remember him, the one Dubs beat up in order to feel big, and the one we made run around his grandparent’s house until he threw up (I can see why Uber is leaving our company for the left coast).

Now at some point in the night, the issue of speed came up, and a long ago boast that I can outrun Brownsox any day of the week. Brownsox was quite indignant to this charge, and I, powered by alcohol and the fact that Brownsox is one of the slowest people I have ever met, decided to settle it once and for all with a race. The terms were set at first one around the block wins.

A note in self defense. It is no secret that I am in shit shape. But as many people who know me can recount, I can move at nigh-superhuman speeds if needed (mostly to catch trains and whatnot). Of course, my genetically inferior lungs give way quickly, so I can only do this for short distances. Brownsox, it should also be noted, has much longer legs and much less body fat than me (he also does not have low grade asthma, I’m just saying). However, the man’s life speed is constantly set at molasses. I still contest that I can get to point A faster than him anytime; I just may not be able to run for as long or as fast as him.

This fact became clear about an eighth of the way through the race. As I trailed behind him it became clear that this was not going in my favor. So I did the more sensible/less sportsmanlike thing; I turned the hell around, went back to the bar, and had another beer. You have to know when to hold them, know when to fold then, know when to walk away, know when to not run.

We left Triple Crown relatively early (we had been there since 8) and went home to rest up for Tomorrow. Around Seven am, I woke with a horrendous pain in my left calf. Apparently that little race took more out of me than I thought. The pain subsided, and I went back to bed. I woke up to my alarm a couple of hours later, and as I got up, realized my left leg could not support much weight. I limped to the bathroom, cleaned up a bit, and with much difficulty, limped to Nevada’s.

This game was one of my all time favorites. We were playing a shit team, but needed to win if we had any shots at the title this year. By the end of the first half, we were down 2 nil and one of our players had been sent off (on a tackle not too different from the one that crippled our player a couple of weeks ago, so I can’t get too self righteous). Halftime was spent commiserating with fellow gunners and debating rounds of shots. But the second half was a revelation, as we scored three goals to come back and win the game. An amazing sight to behold.

My injured leg caused me to take a nap instead of playing football with the boys later. After some zees and a shower, we headed down to Uber260’s goodbye dinner. The restaurant was Philoxenia, an old neighborhood place that has closed down but recently reopened further away. Sadly, something had been lost in the move, but the food was decent. I was told I have the tendency to “Act like a mob boss” when I go out for large party dinners, mostly because I drink a lot of wine and talk very loudly about inappropriate things. My volume and discard for swearing in front of children is common knowledge, and let me add that I honestly normally do not enjoy large group dinners at restaurants, as I find them a hassle. As an example, Uber260 was 20 minutes late to his own goodbye dinner (I am sure you are shocked), which lest us sitting at the table like morons. Stuff like this make the normally serene and pleasant act of eating out into a mountain of bullshit. This dinner was nice, though.

Dinner finished, we hit the train to go to the Irish Rogue for the final blowout, and blowout it was. People who I have not seen in literally a year showed up to send Uber260 off. I wish I could go into more detail, but alas the combination of Greek Table Wine and American lager seemed to have washed my memory clean of details. The point was we had a grand old time.

The only way to recover from such a weekend was a Lazy Sunday, one where horrible movies were enjoyed (A Clive Owen double bill of Shoot’em Up and King Arthur) and pants were not put on till 11pm, when I went out to have one more drink with Uber before he bid this town adieu. We are all poorer for his leaving, but at least we sent him off well.