Call me a cynic. Call me a guy with a decidedly shitty job and a decidedly even shittier blog. Both are applicable. Likelihood, at least in the near future, of workplace happiness for me? Slim. Likelihood I'll ever attend a
Barstool Sports event again? Even slimmer. Likelihood I'm writing partly out of jealousy for a guy who fixates on sports and breasts for a living? 40%. Likelihood the Giants' defeat yesterday colors my perspective today? 100%.
Barstool Sports is a blog. It's niche: boobs and sports, "by the common man, for the common man". It's a bit of a phenomenon in Boston. Truth be told, this afternoon marked my first ever visit to the site. I still haven't read any of it. Don't really want to, having reluctantly attended one of their events at
The Harp last weekend.
I was picked up by Marty under false pretense. We were going somewhere low key for a few drinks. As Marty's a bit of a "stool", we ended up at The Harp. (I hereby declare this is what you're supposed to call avid readers of Barstool Sports.)
As we approached the door there was some guy standing there, alongside two bouncers, with a list in his hands. Though there was no line at that point, he offered immediately, "Are you on the list? You've got to be on the list to get in. You can't just get in. This is a list party," as though he was St. Peter guarding the gates of heaven.
Marty responds without missing a beat (he never does), "I'm on the list. I love the site lately by the way." Marty owns his shit. It's undeniable.
The guy, who I later learned was the founder of Barstool, and who operates under the moniker,'El Prez', adds, "Well what about him?" motioning to me.
Marty fires back, pointing towards the list, "I'm on the list 'plus one'."
This struck me as funny. Marty not only foresaw his own attendance, he took into account the fact that he'd likely bring someone with him. "I'm plus one. I'm his date, 'plus one'. He's going to buy all my drinks," I added. El Prez wasn't amused but the bouncers started giggling like middle-schoolers.
"You his date?! You his date!" one of them said incredulously and patronizingly after he'd retrieved his composure and his undeniable masculinity.
"Don't tell nobody that in there!" the other advised, motioning towards the inside of the bar as he made way for us. I'm pretty sure they thought we were really gay.
Basically, scantily clad chicks with fake boobs and too much makeup slathered all over their faces walk around in their underwear, amidst hoards of meat heads. Never seen anything remotely like it outside a strip club. It was mostly twenty-somethings dressed in their best "Jagerbombs and Pussy!" outfits, running around vying desperately for the attention of, and photo opps with, the Barstool girls.
We didn't stay very long. My negativity soon became unbearable. While we left no later than 10:00, I can guarantee at least 10 fights broke out later in the evening over who would be lucky enough to get to be in the middle of a slut sandwich photo opp. God bless this great city.
