Last night prior to attending stopping by my first Phillies game, Derrick and I attended a smashingly successful tailgate hosted by some new friends and the only other idiots people to bring an SUV to Center City Philadelphia other than the Prestons.  It's like some magnetic force draws Southerners to one another when they are outside of their natural habitat.  Perhaps it's the unspoken knowledge that once you get to Wal-Mart, you're going to be so glad you have that SUV, even if you only go six times a year. 

At one point, Derrick pointed out another aggressive tailgate going on behind us in the parking lot, and I noticed a gentleman on crutches who had sidled up to the side of their truck.  Suddenly the sight and sound of liquid being poured onto the asphalt filled my senses.  "Wound my soul.  Is he peeing?" I asked.  Derrick insisted, "No, he's pouring out a cooler." No way.  They wouldn't make the guy on crutches pour out the ice chest.  Derrick said, "No, he's peeing." 

The crutched gentleman unleashed a torrent of urine, and on and on it went, forming a pond fit enough for a few solid koi.  I couldn't look out of disgust, yet I couldn't look away!  When would it end?  How dare he subject his fellow tailgaters and bystanders to this torture when Philadelphia, in all its glory, provides endless and convenient facilities?

When the pain was finally over, Derrick handed me my dinner: a wiener.  It looked sort of like this, except replace Martha with Derrick, who is like Martha in some ways:


And now, a wiener puppy in a hot dog bun.  CUTE!

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