It was starting to sleet and snow last night. For safety's sake, I decided that I would weather the storm in a bar. I decided that I needed a change of scenery, though, and I had sworn to use the "Internet Rage Speech" as written by Zug's own, Chi Chi Felipe. The local VFW Hall seemed to be a good place to stir up some trouble.
When I was a boy, my father would take me down there a couple nights a week to visit my grandmother while he shot pool or darts or played some cards with the guys. Everybody thought it was funny to let me have a drink of their beer, so at the ripe old age of 13 I was learning to "work the room" for drinks and my own amusement.
This was the same VFW that my grandfather drank at when he was alive. The same VFW my grandmother worked at twenty-plus years ago. It was the type of place that had the ancient wood paneling, historic advertising, and dubious looking seating. This place wasn't retro, it was Frost-ing old.
I decided that I needed to step into the way-back machine, and pulled my truck into the VFW parking lot. There were about 10 cars in the lot, about half of which were De Villes. This told me two things: the place was not crowded, and it was the old-timers in there drinking. Perfect.
I opened the door and was greeted by the dulcet tones of some Frankie Valley tune which was ending, then followed by Gary Lewis and the Playboys. This needed to be changed. I dropped $5.00 in the machine and selected the whole of Concrete Blonde's deliciously brooding album, Bloodletting.
I bellied-up and ordered, "Double Jack, PBR back, please." The entire row of guys at the bar turned to look at the "kid" who had walked in- I was the youngest person in this dive, with the exception of the barmaid, by a good 25 years. Pay-off number one for coming to the VFW? "That'll be $3.00," mumbles the barmaid. I flipped a twenty at her, and left the change setting on the bar- I was going to be spending some time here.
The groundwork for pay-off number two was immediately set into motion by the curmudgeons to my left, obviously curious of the young interloper in their midst. I had the Internet Rage speech mostly memorized, and had been itching to use it. I had decided that a drunken lot of old-timers were as good an audience as any. I settled in with my drinks, and started making the small talk with a couple of the guys.
They immediately questioned my credentials: "Where'd you serve?", "What unit were you with?", "Were you in Desert Storm or any action in Iraq?" they asked of me. "Well, gentlemen, I was cursed with the flat feet, so was deemed unfit for duty. I did, however, work as a security guard at the mall. I felt that the least I could do was keep the home-front safe while our boys were over-seas." They looked at me kind of funny, and I could tell that my non-service was an issue, so I cut them off before they asked me to leave- I explained my father and grandfather's service, and this seemed to appease them. The attitude is much more relaxed with this afternoon crowd.
As I hang around getting to know the "boys" it occurs to me that in every dive I go to, there is always a fellow named "Red". This strikes me as ironic, because these mother-Frosters are usually green from too many years under the bad lighting, drinking too much, and sitting in stale cigarette smoke. Anyway, the jokes start flowing, and the barmaid is taunted with the same old jokes that have been heard in every dive since Moses was wearing short-pants. "Give me another; I'll drown these tapeworms yet!" "Give me another, my bottle has a hole in the top!", etc.
My music finally started playing, and the time was ripe for me to start working out my plan. Do you know what raises the ire of stodgy old bastards? Music that isn't fifty years old, that's what. I hear a "What the hell is this? Since when do they start recording animal mutilations?" and so on. Bingo, the plan is set into motion! I say to the barmaid, quite loudly, "Hey, this isn't what I selected, I picked some good ole' Hank- can we change this?"
Now is the time, my friends.
 I stand up and state (this is paraphrased, I'm sure I didn't get the speech 100% correct): "You know what I hate? That goddamned Rock and Roll, which I disagree with on an ideological level. Oh sure, this racket may be good enough for Johnny Rotten and his cheerleading, pill-popping, bulimic girlfriend, and maybe they enjoy this Shakespeare while they're cruising in Johnny's Bitchin' Camaro, looking for a good spot for him to date-rape her, but not me. Frost that Shakespeare. I'm special because I rage against the machines of what is popular. I could pretend to enjoy this strip-mall, mullet-haired, punk-ass tripe, but this Rock and Roll music is in direct conflict with my political beliefs and my beliefs as to what qualifies as something not worth being used to gather from around my anus the last few dingleberries of a corn-and-beer Shakespeare. I would honestly rather watch a burlap sack full of kittens be tossed from a cliff and fall to the rocky depths below than have to deal with crap like this so-called Rock and Roll. When Rock and Roll ceases to be popular, or even better, when all those involved in this train wreck are dead, the world will be a much, much better place."
Like anybody who has ever laid the right speech on the right crowd, I was working the room like a Frost-ing politician. I had to resist the urge to hop on the bar and start selling snake oil. They were all piping in their two cents, agreeing with what I was saying. At one point I thought the guy playing solitaire at the table by the bar was going to have a stroke, he was cussing and spitting so much. "All your bottles are belong to us!" The drinks started flowing, and I was 'backed up' for several rounds. One of the guys tells me I'm OK, and I should show up more often.
The upshot? I ended up staggering out of the bar about four hours later, having paid for my first few drinks, then everything post-speech was gratis. This is a fine example of how a strongly stated position of hate equals profit, whether it be leadership of a country, increased profitability of a publication, or merely cheap boozing.
I think tonight I will be playing some rap music at one of my favorite trashy dives.
Mr. Sir is a lover, a fighter, and a bar room raconteur. Thanks to Chi Chi Felipe (Vonkaiser.com) for inspiration.
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