Today, we begin a three-part series to view one of the rarest of events:
Rare, I tell ya.
Like watching Rachael Ray and NOT wanting to put your skull through the f*cking television.
Let's start Part 1....
A truly romantic evening always begins with a fistfight.
Mrs. Moog and I had an opportunity a while back to head to Boston.
We’d gotten a Visa gift-card and some Boston Bruins tickets for Christmas.
------ (Begin Public Service Announcement)------
For those who don’t know, the Bruins are a hockey team here in Boston.
Hockey, for those who don’t know, is a physical game played on ice.
Ice, for those who don’t know, is frozen water.
Water, for those who don’t know, is essential to life.
If you actually don’t know this, you need to stop reading and GO GET SOME WATER NOW…or you’re going to die.
This would also explain your headaches, lack of urine, and hallucinations of a threesome with Rosie O’Donnell and David Hasselhoff.
------(End of Public Service Announcement) ------
The gift card was to supposed to be for us to have a nice dinner out.
Normally, I sped Visa gift-cards on balloon animals and lube, but whatever.
So, we headed to Boston, where we began our “date night.”
Rule #1: The Subway sucks
So, we embarked on our journey, which includes taking the subway straight into Boston.
Driving your car to Boston is an effort in patience, skill, and deft bowel control.
Since I don’t have any of those things, we took the subway.
We’re sitting there waiting to leave when we hear the subway announcer come over the speakers:
Driver: “shquirkel flemmff shnark thwaarsh unngh car”
Apparently, either the speakers are not working properly, or the driver is related to Charlie Brown’s teacher.
We overhear the scary homeless guy wearing shorts and a ski cap across from us talking to himself about another car disabled on the track.
Just like a teenager's period, I don't like being late.
And we’re going to be late.
Subways suck almost as much as Tila Tequila faced with a giant bowl of penis-clitoris flavored jello (patent pending).
I hate delays.
I hate them almost as much as wanting to read one of these newspapers lying around here...
..but they're all in f*cking Chinese writing. HOW DO PEOPLE READ THIS SHIT?!?
They're probably Chinese.
The delay will probably make us late.
To protest this point, I lose patience and make a bowel movement on the subway.
I consider this a public service...
...since this also gives the homeless guy someone to talk to.
I can be helpful like that.
Date Night Rule #2: You Can't Eat without a Fight