#RubberBalls&Liquor

Oh, look: it’s Friday! If you can read this, you made it. Welcome to Obalesque Weekend Edition. As opposed to the Weakened Edition.

Well before the #TrumPandemic era, I intended to retool this blog significantly, concentrating on the conversations and antics at the lesbian sports bar where I hang out. Actually, it would be the new location, as the old Liquor & Rubber Balls Sports Emporium and One-Hour Martinizing lost its lease, and had to move. As Don Tequila, Guiding Spirit of the facility noted, “The only creatures lower than the slime-sucking commercial property owners in the city of Hollywood are the execrable stinking vermin that live under their buildings. But at least those parasites have the decency to stay out of daylight.”

Full story and additional details: https://squathole.wordpress.com/2019/01/22/happy-brew-year/

Don managed to open the place, renamed #RubberBalls&Liquor and not quite finished, in time for the Superbowl, as he promised. I vaguely remember screaming obscenities at Andy Reid and the Chiefs (as an Eagles fan, I will always despise that head coach and yes, I was in the minority as well the bag that night). But shortly thereafter he had to shut it down when #TrumPandemic overwhelmed the region.

Don visits the site daily, moodily adding final touches to the décor oriented to his clientele,  most of which seems to be fashioned out of black leather. Sweet! I drop by now and then, slip on a mask, and walk in. I got privileges.

“Taps are off,” he says, not looking up. “Sewage problems. All this damn rain.”

Do I dare ask what sewage has to do with your beer taps? Is this a cost-saving measure – piping in sewage to sell as a Florida microbrewery product?

“I didn’t think of that,” he replies, either amused or intrigued. “Filter out the solids and I probably could. Effusia Lite. Dung Dark. I Pee A. Yeah. Might work.”

Numbers are going the wrong way again. Any idea when you’ll open?

Don shakes his massive head. “We could legally open now. Limited seating, social distancing, masks.  But…” (long pause) “Look, you know my clientele. They’re out there on the edge already, drunks, heads, abusers, self-destructive loonies – I don’t want to contribute to that any more than I do already. We just gotta get past this.”

Why, Don, you big softie. You got a conscience. Who knew?

“None of my ex-wives,” he says. “Or creditors.” He slips off his stool, graceful as a listing battleship, and walks to the door. “Holy mother of dog, it’s fucking raining again.” Sighs massively. I’ve never seen him this down.

Maybe it’s time to get out, Don. Take your millions and retire to Tahiti.

“Not my style. I get in trouble when I got nothin’ to do. I’m in for the long haul. Well, longer.”

You could always hand it over to somebody else and take a back seat. A smaller role. Once you get it open, let some other sucker run the day-to-day.

Don gives me the look I imagine you’d see on linebackers about to blitz a rookie quarterback. “You know the old joke about the poor shmuck whose job at the circus is to follow the parade and clean up the animal shit in the street? Does it year after year, literally tons of shit on his resume. Somebody asks him why he doesn’t get the hell out, and he says, ‘What?? And leave show biz?’ That’s me. Meet the New Boss. Same as the old boss.”

I’d drink to that, Don, but your taps are off.

“Heh! Sit your ass back down. I’ll lock the door and open some bottles.”

Man, I miss this place.