After journeying into the savage heart of Bluebell and surviving one of its plastic country clubs – all in the name of Phillies-Mets tickets – I was quite peeved on Sunday when the game was rained out. Why, God? As were my three comrades. We decided that the best way to channel our negative energy would be to go and eat at one of South Philly’s fine establishments, the Black and Brew, a solid coffee shop with excellent food. And all was just honky-dory until an absolute atrocity entered the shop.
A Mets fan.
What madness was afoot here? Who dares to not only enter South Philadelphia donning the Devil’s colors, but decides to patronize one of its businesses? You might as well piss on a cheese steak, pull the plug at Boathouse row and call Rocky a sissy – you’ve already committed the most heinous of acts.
May God take pity upon your soul.
Very quickly, our table became ornery. Eyes slit. Fingers menacingly rolling over the glass-covering of the table. Eggs bitten into with the added emphasis of force and rage. Wisps of steam from hot coffee blown away in measured bursts, an obvious strain of self-control forming upon the face.
“What is he doing here?” Continue reading