September 29, 2017. South Bend, Indiana. Rocco's Pizza.
by Bruno95 (2017-01-11 15:59:23)
Edited on 2017-01-11 16:35:25
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A 2008 Dodge Caravan backs into its spot. Out pile SimplyIrish, wife, and kids. Both adults are wearing tennis shoes with jeans. He in Shamrock Series jersey, she in marked-down Adidas ND gear she received for Christmas. This year. They're seated right away, for his dream scenario is coming to fruition. "Gimme seven watahs." "I'm sorry?" "Watahs. We're from Boston." With that, an extra topping (pubic hair) is on the house.

He overcomes the disappointment that they noticed the Groupon expired, but it's still worth somethin'. They get a couple pies, eat more than human people should, and saunter out. $50. $52 after tip.

Back to the B&B that asked them to stop bringing the kids, for an early night's sleep. They'll be waking up to the Victory March, contrary to another polite request, applying that first round of sunscreen, then making off for the Bookstore. SimplyIrish has been filling out surveys for money, and he's got a prepaid Visa card that's about to buy a red ND sideline hat. Just like BVG's kid wears.

Lunch will be burned burgers, same as Mom's (that's what he calls his wife, even when SimplestIrish is poking through the jammy pants). Hustle to the player walk, where he is nearly tased for trying to touch a visiting three-star recruit. "That kid's 40 pounds away from putting a hand on the ground! Elko's gonna coach you up, boy!" Someone reminds him that "boy" is discouraged nomenclature.

To the game, where, despite shithousing two cans of Meijer-brand SPF 50, they all burn like they were kidnapped by Mox-Mox. Notre Dame loses, no one cares, he meets friends who don't happen to have their business cards on them, and they finally catch the shuttle back to the White Lot. Where the Caravan awaits.

Godspeed, man who likes things that are not good. Enjoy your time in the Bend.


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