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!