SUNDAY WING NIGHT RUINED BY THE PUB

Cowboys vs Buccaneers. The highlight of my semester was supposed to be watching the first Sunday Night Football with my brothers after a long week of grinding Econ 100 and Intro to Business while my parents watched me blow money from afar in Nantucket. Before you blame me for being pissed about this mess, just know I’m writing on a day where the Pats lost to the Dolphins, the Giants miraculously beat the not so mighty Titans, and on top of that, the Queen died this week.

My day began at the ass-crack of dawn after a long night of ripping Ticker. I rolled out of bed to the noise of Labatt cans falling on the ground with a strange crust around my mouth. I quickly put on a shirt that wasn’t soaked by alien Ticker liquids. I walked into the common area and caught my brothers watching the coronation of Charles the Third, still wide awake from the adrenaline buzzing The Temple the night before. As the smell from the damp sofa became too much for my sensitive morning nose, I stumbled out of the front door and took a left look down theme row to see the sun rising above the place that shall not be named.

Seeing a walking cloud of ashes (boomers) walking down Park Street towards something they call church, reminded me that Allah (TB12) will be doing a battle with the Dallas Cowgirls on NBC Primetime while Chris Collinsworth prepares his will on national television.

My mind was racing. I was juiced. Football is back. God’s Game. America’s Pastime. The Greatest Sport in The World.

Wings. I had to get wings. A divinely inspired idea indeed. Sergi’s? I don’t want to get a tapeworm. The Hut? Just no. Little Italy? Never again after Spring Fest.

The Pub.

The Pub was the plan. I quickly opened my Get Mobile app to order. With my brothers in mind, I quickly dropped over $200 on the most insane order of wings in SLU history.

Flash forward over 12 hours of swiping on Tinder and zero textbook pages read and it was time to make the trek from 13 University Ave. to Sullivan to pillage The Pub for its sweet fruits. I walked through a driving rainstorm, but my love for football, wings, and my brothers drove me forward. Finally getting to the student center felt like Jordan Belfort getting out of prison. I carried my treasure back to the house and set it down on the table.

My brothers were juiced now too. They opened the box.

Chicken Fingers. They gave me chicken fingers. They didn’t tell me. They didn’t refund me. It’s gonna be a long night sleeping in my car.

Pub, thank you. For absolutely nothing.