A group of high school wrestlers from Springfield hung out in the lobby until we closed the doors the other night. Wrestling? What a silly and homo-erotic sport.
So, all these jocks had their letter jackets on. They just sat around pounded their muscular fists into the tables laughing about fart jokes. Donut crumbs and pop spilled every which way.
It was surprising to me that these meat-heads didn't have any ditsy chicks with them because when I was in high school all the wrestlers constantly had the flaky chicks wrapped around their pulsating veins. Did all that male-on-male crouch grabbing and butt slapping associated with wrestling finally get to these guys?
We were really slow when these jocks were treating the Tim Hortons' lobby as their own personal McDonald's play pen, so I was tempted, tempted to tell these meat-heads to, "Make like a tree and get the hell out of here," but I chickened out multiple times. I just couldn't do it. All those terrible high school memories of the wrestlers treating me like crap flooded back into my brain. I was paralyzed.
When they finally got up to leave one of the wrestlers asked me to refill his water. I told him I was busy and proceeded to stock one of the napkin dispensers. The Buddha Baker noticed that I wasn't helping the dude and went ahead and refilled his water.
"Why didn't you help him?" asked the Buddha Baker.
"I don't know. I didn't like those dudes," I said.
"I got-ya," said the Buddha Baker. "Me either."