The following story is REAL, and no names have been changed, except Rich, who I will refer to as "Richard," in order to protect his identity.
Richard and I went to a Yankee game a few days ago, but as punishment for lapping too mightily at the parental trough, we had to sit in the Loge. We had an extra ticket to get rid of, so Richard, reverting to assistant mode, used his best inside voice to find someone willing to purchase the ticket. Eventually, an ordinary looking white guy in his late 20s wearing glasses, a skateboarding t-shirt, cargo shorts and sandals approached Richard. After a little haggling, the deal was completed.
The guy warned us to "Get ready to drink your asses off!" and sure enough, when he got to his seat (which was right next to mine), he was noticeably drunk. He introduced himself as Scott from Vancouver, and asked me what my name was. I told him, and it seemed that we would settle into the normal patter reserved for acquaintances you meet on airplanes, etc.
But Scott soon turned the conversation in a different direction. Here it is, word for word:
Scott: What's the post-game plan, eh? What do New Yorkers do on a Thursday night?
Me: I dunno, maybe go to a bar.
Scott: I tell you what, how about the two of us, we go to a club downtown and we score some pussy, get laid.
Me: Heh. Yeah, easier said than done.
Scott: You're talking to the pussy king, eh. In Montreal, which is like the pussy capital of the world, it's great because girls want YOU to come over to their place. But here, I make up excuses like 'my roommate locked me out.' Works like a charm. I'm rakin' in pussy hand over fist over here in the States.
Me: Good for you.
Scott: I'm tellin' you, I'm gonna be your Canadian wingman tonight, and I don't care if it's fat, or it's black, or whatever- we are gonna get SO MUCH FUCKING PUSSY!
Keep in mind that Scott was a mild-mannered, kind of geeky-looking guy. At this point, Scott had to run and get another beer. I was a little creeped out and not looking forward to his return, but fortunately when he came back from getting beer, his mind had gone off on a tangent.
He started yelling "LET'S GO RED SOX!" at Yankees fans at the top of his lungs (the Yankees weren't even playing the Red Sox), earning him the hatred of every person in our section. And then of course he turned to me to start talking again, making me Public Enemy Number Two by association. This time, Scott started suggesting that I take a trip with him to Atlantic City, or maybe to Las Vegas, or maybe to Ottawa, which he assured me was "very chill." My lukewarm reaction to his plans caused him to try his luck with two Jersey Goombas sitting behind him. Needless to say, they did not think a trip to Ottawa with Scott would be "very chill." So Scott quieted down for about an inning, and was so calm that he seemed to barely notice when the Seventh Inning Stretch began--
PA Announcer: We here at Yankee Stadium would now like to take a moment of silence to honor the men and women who have sacrificed their lives in military service abroad to protect our freedom and liberty.
(beat -- the entire stadium falls silent as all fans bow their heads)
Scott (whispering in my ear): So much fucking pussy!