In Which Queenie Gets Soused and Barks Like a Dog

Film at Eleven

I spent the afternoon at the home of a close girlfriend, watching my beloved Georgia Bulldogs beat the snot out of those insufferable Tennessee Volunqueers and sucking down glass after glass of not-so-cheap red wine. If you've never watched a college football game with a roomful of horny alumna divorcées hopped up on the fruit of the vine, you're missing out; you get to hear all sorts of enlightened comments like, "Dang. Them boys sure are biiig, ain't they?" and "Y'reckon he could crack a walnut with that ass? He looks like he's all muscle." Good times, people, good times.

Scintillating as was the conversational fare, I could not resist the urge to wander out and fuck with the neighbors, obnoxious and prideful Vol fans who were so full of themselves (before the half, that is) as to come over to my girlfriend's house and gloat through the open windows that we were about to get our asses handed to us on a silver-britches platter, to caterwaul in chorus on Georgia's complete suckage, and to bruit out loud the notion that their Vols would send our pack of whinging pussy-boys back to Athens with their tails between their legs. Such taunting was not to be borne, and Queenie is nothing if not a devious and revengeful cunt. While they traipsed their tacky, orange-clad arses across my friend's meticulously-tended flowerbeds, trumpeting their superiority, I entered their house through the open garage and poked around a bit. All my early training came back to me and I moved with stealth, setting a passworded parental control on their cable television, hiding their weed-stash under the couch cushions, and filling all their toilet-tanks with hidden bottles of red food-coloring, so that every flush would bring upon them the Color of Victory. Don't laugh; it was tough finding that many bottles of red dye on one street. I must have raided four houses before I found enough for every toilet. For a minute there, I thought I was going to have to spare the master bath.

My lust for a prank sated, I returned to my friend's ever-so-comfortable sofa, and proceeded to watch the slaughter...but I kept my ears open for sounds of discontent from next door. Alas, I was let down; after the half those neighbors were far quieter, and much more interested in the pork-loin they were smoking than the balance of the game. And, hell - if I'd known we were going to win, I might have cut those loudmouthed Vols some slack. Winning is, after all, the best revenge. Oh me of little faith.

After the game - and five bottles of wine later - my girls and I supped on chocolate cake and Diet Coke. Giggling, we proceeded to the woods, where we filled an unsuspecting tree-stump full of hot lead. God, I love the smell of cordite after my Dawgs kick the shit out of Tennessee.

It was a great day. One more glass of wine, some quality time with my "neck massager" and a photograph of Bane, and I will truly, truly sleep well...