The Trashing - No pun intended
Last Wednesday, my wife and I went to a small Establishment called O’Maolidhia’s Bar (it’s a hard word to pronounce, I know) to watch the United v Roma match. We’re not Irish but that’s the only place we could watch a soccer game. Adelaide is a predominantly cricket town and the only people here who watch soccer are either British or Asians. My wife is half-Chinese half Aussie so I guess that explains why’d she bother to join me all the way to the O Bar.
The pre-game atmosphere was really tense. Manchester United got its arse kicked on the first leg of the match. To make things worse, Gary Neville, Paul Scholes and Louis Saha missed the second match. There was a lot of expectation but given the latest match stats, it seemed kind of hard for united to win the match. To ease up the tension, we ordered some food at the bar: smoked ham, French fries, boiled eggs, Yorkie chocolate bar and two extra large Guiness. Not the ideal meal per any nutritionist standard, but who cares about idealism when two European football titans are about to clash?
Our pre-game admonition was proven wrong as United began to bombard the Roman defense. First goal seemed like a strike of luck, but after goal no.3 we knew that we were about to see some bloodbath…a story that we will pass on to our children and grandchildren.
The O’Maolidhia’s crowd was very lively and we had the chants just like what we might expect to listen at the Trafford’s End. One of my favorite chant goes like this (sing the words to the tunes of Glory, glory hallelujah)
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
And he ain’t gonna score no more…
I definitely sung this song for a million times that night.
At the end of the match my wife was so drunk (as she made a promise to grab a pint after each goal - united scored 7 goals that night), I had to carry her on my shoulders and brought her to the taxi. Driving was out of the question. She was muttering gibberish all the way home and by the time we got home, the first I did is I tucked her to bed right away.
But just as I was about to go to bed myself, I heard this sound of rumble from her belly. Like the thunder in a tornado cloud that says YOU ARE TOTALLY FUCKED. Two seconds later she sprayed a shower of vomit four feet across the bed and suddenly there were bits of undigested Yorkie Bar all over the sheets.
The funny thing is that instead of getting that nauseous feeling when you see pukes, my mind went directly into the Field Manual of Happy Marriage. I did a mental search on the issue of throwing up in bed, but by the Testicles of Hercules, I had no such luck. The book dedicated an entire chapter to sexual dysfunction, child rearing and filling your tax return but it didn’t have anything to say about vomits.
I have this crazy ass theory that no matter how homophobic or misogynic a pirate can be, there’s always a combat medic inside of him waiting to come up. And did my crazy theory come to life that night. Instead of throwing tantrum (like I used to do whenever my nieces did it), I calmly pull her out of the “crime scene”, sat her on the nearby couch, and changed her out of her soiled clothes. Once I got it done, I handed her a bottle of water. I then replaced the soiled sheets with a new one and carried her back to the now-tidy bed.
I got this whole process done in less than 5 minutes.
What happened next is I just sat down next to her, expecting to see a second wave of puke attack. But times went on and nothing happened so I began to recall my rather sensational feat of arms. To tell you the truth, it was all instinctive.
About five minutes after the lull, I decided to get some sleep but as I was about to dim the lights, my wife reached up her fingers, tapped me in the shoulder and said, "thank ee, brohm." She looked so weak and tired and cranky she said it with a quivering, heartbreaking tone. And then then she fell asleep with such a comfortable sigh as if she knew that no matter what happened, a self-proclaimed pirate like me would take a good care of her.
HOLY SHIT, DO I EVER LOSE FAITH IN MARRIAGE.
The pre-game atmosphere was really tense. Manchester United got its arse kicked on the first leg of the match. To make things worse, Gary Neville, Paul Scholes and Louis Saha missed the second match. There was a lot of expectation but given the latest match stats, it seemed kind of hard for united to win the match. To ease up the tension, we ordered some food at the bar: smoked ham, French fries, boiled eggs, Yorkie chocolate bar and two extra large Guiness. Not the ideal meal per any nutritionist standard, but who cares about idealism when two European football titans are about to clash?
Our pre-game admonition was proven wrong as United began to bombard the Roman defense. First goal seemed like a strike of luck, but after goal no.3 we knew that we were about to see some bloodbath…a story that we will pass on to our children and grandchildren.
The O’Maolidhia’s crowd was very lively and we had the chants just like what we might expect to listen at the Trafford’s End. One of my favorite chant goes like this (sing the words to the tunes of Glory, glory hallelujah)
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
Totti, Totti, what a helluva way to die
And he ain’t gonna score no more…
I definitely sung this song for a million times that night.
At the end of the match my wife was so drunk (as she made a promise to grab a pint after each goal - united scored 7 goals that night), I had to carry her on my shoulders and brought her to the taxi. Driving was out of the question. She was muttering gibberish all the way home and by the time we got home, the first I did is I tucked her to bed right away.
But just as I was about to go to bed myself, I heard this sound of rumble from her belly. Like the thunder in a tornado cloud that says YOU ARE TOTALLY FUCKED. Two seconds later she sprayed a shower of vomit four feet across the bed and suddenly there were bits of undigested Yorkie Bar all over the sheets.
The funny thing is that instead of getting that nauseous feeling when you see pukes, my mind went directly into the Field Manual of Happy Marriage. I did a mental search on the issue of throwing up in bed, but by the Testicles of Hercules, I had no such luck. The book dedicated an entire chapter to sexual dysfunction, child rearing and filling your tax return but it didn’t have anything to say about vomits.
I have this crazy ass theory that no matter how homophobic or misogynic a pirate can be, there’s always a combat medic inside of him waiting to come up. And did my crazy theory come to life that night. Instead of throwing tantrum (like I used to do whenever my nieces did it), I calmly pull her out of the “crime scene”, sat her on the nearby couch, and changed her out of her soiled clothes. Once I got it done, I handed her a bottle of water. I then replaced the soiled sheets with a new one and carried her back to the now-tidy bed.
I got this whole process done in less than 5 minutes.
What happened next is I just sat down next to her, expecting to see a second wave of puke attack. But times went on and nothing happened so I began to recall my rather sensational feat of arms. To tell you the truth, it was all instinctive.
About five minutes after the lull, I decided to get some sleep but as I was about to dim the lights, my wife reached up her fingers, tapped me in the shoulder and said, "thank ee, brohm." She looked so weak and tired and cranky she said it with a quivering, heartbreaking tone. And then then she fell asleep with such a comfortable sigh as if she knew that no matter what happened, a self-proclaimed pirate like me would take a good care of her.
HOLY SHIT, DO I EVER LOSE FAITH IN MARRIAGE.
