How To Ruin Someone’s Good Time – A Primer

I fully understand that not everyone who attends a hockey game is 100% invested in the event.  I know that many are there on dates and agreed to go not because they are a fan, but because they want to be with their loved one.  I don’t even mind strange, random conversations with other attendees, because those usually become funny stories (I once sat next to a volunteer fireman who waxed on and on about how hockey helmets weren’t all that good because they’re not ‘suspension’ helmets – whatever that means).

What I do mind is someone who gets on my nerves so badly for the entire evening that I actually attempt to beat the snot out of them in the parking lot at the conclusion of the evening.

It was just a $5 preseason game during which the Ducks trotted out their poopie #2 goaltender and wacky lines, so I wasn’t expecting us to win.  What I WAS expecting was a fairly mellow time at a half-full Staples Center with a cold beer in one hand, a hot dog in the other and yet another opportunity to have an entire section boo little ol’ me.

Alas, it wasn’t to be.

We only live a 30-minute bus ride from Staples, so we always take public transpo to avoid the $30 parking.  But (of course) the bus was 45 minutes late and we barely made puck drop.

On the way to our seats, we run into a friend who owns a block of eight seats and he invites us to join him.  But the noob usher freaks out and the friend has to find a senior usher who knows him in order for us to sit in seats that were going to be empty anyway.

I’m feeling a little better now.  The seats are dead center ice, a preteen kid behind me is enthusiastically sporting a Wildwing third jersey and the chick beside me is wearing an original Ducks sweater.

I should have known it was too good to be true.  The chick starts talking.  She’s obviously dead drunk and the game isn’t even five minutes old.  The Kings score twice within 30 seconds.  She complains that she’s too hot and takes off the jersey to reveal – wait for it – a Red Wings T-shirt.

She hands me the Ducks jersey saying it belonged to her ex-boyfriend and she doesn’t want it any more.  Then she starts crying.  Turns out she broke up the day before.  I don’t know her so I don’t care.  All I know is that she’s shitting all over a game I’m trying to watch so I can evaluate how my guys are coming along.

During the third period she actually passes out in her seat.  People are looking at us.  Fortunately, I had a saving grace line: “what do you expect; she’s a Red Wings fan”.

The Ducks lose horribly, Kings fans are pointing and laughing at me and the drunk wants one more drink, so we go to a nearby pub.  My boyfriend orders a vodka up, the friend a beer, the drunk a Bacardi/coke and I a bourbon.  Three drinks arrive.  The drunk starts loudly complaining that she hasn’t been served.

I didn’t think I could get more embarrassed until a manager comes over and informs us that they can’t serve her.  I wanted to crawl under the table.  She starts stating quite loudly that we should go someplace else.  I haven’t even touched my drink and you don’t shoot bourbon unless you’re in a Clint Eastwood movie.  Then she starts berating me for not drinking fast enough.  Other patrons are beginning to look. I’ve now moved on from embarrassed to mortified.

So we pay up and move on to a nearby hotel bar where I can clearly tell that my boyfriend and his friend would like to go home.  I try logic and tell the drunk creature we have to get up very early.  It (yes, she has now completely degenerated into an it) says call in sick, take the day off!

So, of course, there’s another round of drinks and she gets even more maudlin.  I try to be nice and comfort her, but she counters by asking why I would care about her, I don’t know her.  Okay, fine, you’re right.  I don’t know you and I don’t give a fuck about you.  I was just trying to be nice.  Then she starts crying again.

(If I had an axe, I’ll tell you what I’d do – I’d chop her up and make a rotisserie or two…)

Around midnight we FINALLY head to the friend’s car.  I ask him if he would like me to sit in the front seat in order to more easily give him directions.  He agrees.  As I buckle in, It starts screaming at me to get out.  Not yelling, not shouting. Screaming at the top of its lungs.

I hate it when logic doesn’t work.

I’m embarrassed to say I completely snapped.  Fortunately, my bf makes an excellent linesman and I came to my senses within a couple seconds and let her win by default.

I get in the back and think we’re free and clear.  But noooooo!  She starts demanding that she be driven home first.

Suffice it to say, we eventually got home, but if it had been the dead of winter, the flames coming out my head would have heated all of Southern California for a month.

You know those “Cops” TV shows that feature drunken trailer trash?  That was her to a T!