John Allen Muhammed, the “Beltway Sniper”, was just executed by the state of Virginia by lethal injection.  The U.S. Supreme Court denied a last-minute appeal.  Many people think this was necessary to provide closure.  I think we haven’t done enough.

For one thing, the news reports I’ve read have said “his family’s reactions were not discussed”.  What the fuck?  His family?  Are we talking immediate family?  We let them live?  What kind of a country is this?  I don’t think they’re talking about kissing cousins, either.  This sounds like immediate fucking family.  As far as I’m concerned, we’re just getting started.

Next stop: he was born in New Orleans.  Now, yes, granted, the Bush administration did everything in its power to destroy the city already, but last time I checked, it’s still fucking there.  This means that potentially there are neighbors, schools — people instrumental in his very upbringing — who are still alive and kicking.

And don’t get me fucking started on the Muslim bit.  Islam is still legal after the rampage?  WTF?

Pinko Justice Stevens dissented from the majority opinion opposing a stay by noting that it is “perverse” to execute a criminal before his appeals process has concluded.  Appeals?!  You’ve got to be kidding me.  This guy gets appeals?!  He’s a fucking terrorist.

But it gets worse.  I’ve heard it proposed that we should have just chopped off the guy’s hands.  Nonsense.  Modern prostheses are awesome.  They have shoulder control.  I was listening to an amputee vet just tonight talk about them.  So they proposed chopping off his arms.  But as far as I’m concerned, he would still have his head, would he not?  And to the people who think we should have just cut off his head?  For fuck’s sake: the guy worked for Farrakahn.  You think a little head-chopping is going to stop him?

But –

[sigh.  deep breath.]

I can deal with these liberals.  I just needed a pause.  There are people — real people — supposed Americans — who thought that imprisoning him for life would have been effective.  “It would get him off the streets,” they argued with straight faces.  “He could never hurt anyone again.”  Blah blah blah unable to differentiate right from wrong blah blah blah human rights blah blah blah counter-productive in a realm where jihadists regularly make martyrs of suicide bombers.  And you thought not killing his family was bad.  Seriously: I know where some of these commies live.  Contact me by email.  We’ll sort this out.

So, The Crest, right?

There is an impossibly divey bar in Temple City by the name of The Crest.  It looked so run-down that for years I assumed it was out of business.  Then I found out it wasn’t.  I just had to go there.  I went there last week — it’s the “country bar” I referenced — not knowing at all what to expect.  What I didn’t expect were $2.75 drinks, though I probably should have from the place.  Also, what I didn’t expect were really nice people working there.

So I went back tonight.

Tonight is Monday.  This is, it turns out, a significant day-of-the-week in American sports.  Oh yeah.  OK.  I figured I was lucky to get a seat at the bar.  I am way weird at this bar.  I’m used to hanging out places at which the weirder you are, the more you fit in.  This is not one of those places.  Par example: Last week I attracted the attention of another patron because of [redacted reason].  He came over to me and we started talking.  He was maybe in his late forties.

This is one of those occasions I’m discovering as an adult where Niall is really useful.  “Kids” is an icebreaker.  He had two sons.  I asked how old they were.  I find out the older one is 24 and the younger “passed away”.

Quick: look very sympathetic and very impassive.  “I’m.  Um.  Very sorry.”

“Oh, it’s OK,” he said.

“I’m.  Um.  Sorry?”

“He was in Iraq.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I tell people this: and, I don’t mean to offend you, I mean I just met you, but people who are anti-war, I don’t know if you are…”  I am, but quick, impassive!  “I tell people this.  ‘Let’s say someone breaks into your house.  He kills your son, rapes your wife, rapes your daughter, and kills your daughter in front of you.  What do you do?’  ‘Oh, I fucking kill him.’  ‘See?’”

“That’s a really good reason for being in Afghanistan, and not a very good reason for being in Iraq,” I reflexively reply.  Oh holy fuck.  Not cool, McGee.  This is not the safe, rarefied air of the liberal blogosphere.  This guy’s son died in Iraq.  Also, fuck, drunk Republican!  Do I need to duck?!

His gaze stumbles, and he gestures in a placid, equanimous way.  “Well, you never know,” he says.

“No, I guess you don’t,” I say.  Fuck.  Recover now.  “And what greater sacrifice can you make for your country?”  In the spur of the moment, this strikes me as ridiculously poor logic but something that might sound consoling to a conservative.  I was right.

Back to tonight.  The almost-run-in did not deter me from returning.  I went back.  The bartender remembered me.  Not my name, but remembered that I had said I was going to return.  And football was on the television.  I settled in and ordered my bizarre regular drink.  She said, “Oh, that’s right!”

She brought me the drink and asked me, “Hey, want to join the football pool?”

“No,” I demurred.  “I don’t know enough about football to join a football pool.”

“Oh, that’s OK!” she said.  “You don’t have to.  You see, we take the score and go across, then we take the score and go down, and the person in the square wins the pool.  It’s $150.”

Working.  Working.  Working.  Nope.  “I’m sorry?”

“See, it works like this.”  She pulls out a piece of paper with that week’s pool.  “We take the first team’s finishing score.  We count that score across.  Then we take the other team’s score.  We count that score down.  Then we look whose name is in the box.  Like, pretend this is me.”  She points to ‘Paula’.  “She’s one-two-three-four-five-six across.  Then one-two-three-four down.  If it’s six to four, she wins.  So it’s kind of random.”

That’s.  Not.  Even close to random, I think, but, impassive is the name of the game.  “Maybe next time,” I say.

So no one knows me here.  No one knows how weird I am.  The know my drink is weird, they know I look incongruous, they know I have some weird habits that I have to declare in advance so they don’t get me thrown out on my ass.  They also don’t know I’m a vegetarian.  And they have $8 steaks.  Steak.  Been a long time for steak.  What the hell, right?  I order a piece of a dead cow.

And they deliver it.  I had ordered it medium rare.  I figured they’d overcook it, which was OK.

They didn’t.  It was seared, and — I believe this is the right term — slightly warmed inside.  Well, fuck.  OK.  I start to eat the steak.  I get halfway through and, oh shit.  Body does not like this.  I quickly ask bartender to watch my bag, and I go to the restroom.  And vomit.  Just a little bit, yes, but, retch.  And kneeling in the bathroom, I think to myself, OK.  You have to pretend you’re someone else to get by in here.  You don’t like the music.  You don’t like the sports.  You like the bartender, but are somewhat afraid of getting killed by the other patrons.  What the fuck are you doing here?

You know what?  I couldn’t come up with a very compelling reason.  So I went back and said, “Could I close this out?”

Bartender looks at my half-finished steak and untouched potato and salad and asks, “Would you like a box for that?”

Oh.  Right.  Box.  You’re supposed to look like you’re going to eat this later.  “Great!” I say.  Internally: Hurry.  Pepto Bismal required.

Box is fetched, I make haste, and I am … OK, if I say “Crest-fallen”, it’s going to look like the post was a wind-up for the pun.  I actually just thought of it now, but I’ll avoid it anyway.  I am … determined to find places to hang out where I don’t have to be someone else.  Somewhere with weird punk hairdos, somewhere with asshole bartenders, somewhere with indifferent patrons, and, unfortunately, somewhere with $8 drinks.  Will it work?  Well, you never know.

Let me introduce you to Joose: a 700 ml can of a 9.9% alcohol concoction loaded with copious amounts of taurine, caffeine, and other fun stuff usually found in Monster Drinks.  Let me save you the math and tell you that this is equivalent to three cans of Red Bull and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with, it appears, benzene, xylene, and embalming fluid added.

A day late for Towel Day, I observe with equal parts glee, horror, and pain that this drink appears to be the closest legal thing to a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster.  I feel like my head has been bronzed, wrapped in a smelly wet towel, and hit repeatedly with both sides of a cross-peen hammer.  I wasn’t aware there were any beverages that gave you a hangover before you got to enjoy them.

Any or all of the preceding links may offend you with Flash animations, infect you with malware, or cause vermin to crawl out of your computer vents.  Normally I’d vet that kind of thing for you, but I need to go lie down somewhere dark and quiet for the next week.