Rough night on the flats

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This is the appropriate thread for this post.

As I exited Bobby Dodd, I decided the Vortex was the appropriate destination to drown my sorrows. Just the right mix of desperation and alcohol. Off I went.

As I walked down Techwood, I reflected on the nut punch I had just received. As I did, the dulcet sounds of REM’s Everybody Hurts emanated from the KA fraternity house. Kudos, fellas.

I shambled through Tech Square and passed Cyrpress Street Pint. Full to the gills, as expected. Cheers, you beautiful bastards. Drown your sorrows.

I walked on to Peachtree and hung a left. My oasis glowed in the distance. Surely the tattooed temptresses of the dazed skull would dull the pain that Ma Tech had inflicted this night. As I approached, I noted that no queue stood in the way between me and my booze-filled respite. A glimmer of hope filled my bosom. I reached for the handle and pulled with no effect. Rejected. The Vortex has abandoned me this wretched night.

On I went. Surely Fado would apply the salve I so needed to soothe my aching soul. I entered and locked eyes with the barkeep. He motioned with his hand at his neck. Service was ended. I was relegated to contend with my existential crisis alone.

As I retreated to the desolate streets of Atlanta, I thought back to the line I saw in front of Bulldogs across from the Vortex in my darkest hour. Do I relent and sell my soul for the liquid relief my fandom requires? No, I must push forward.

My forlorn strides carry me north. Surely there must be somewhere in midtown where a heartbroken Yellow Jacket can drown his sorrows on a cursed Thursday night? Slowly but surely the reliable visage of the winged buffalo emerges in all its neon glory.

Taco Mac will have to do. I saunter to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention. What libation to quench this dire affect? The inspired logos of The Dude springs to mind… “I’ll take a Caucasian…”

The barkeep will not abide… “We have no creamer.” Well, isn’t that an additional kick in the scrotum. “I can make a Tito’s and Bailey’s?”

Why the öööö not….:dunno:
 
GTRules said:
And now I’m in Facebook jail again. I told @JJacket to go down and whip the refs’ asses.
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öööö ööööity öööö öööö.

Damn that was just an exhibition of some of THE worst football I've ever seen. The refs did give UVAg several gifts with the BS roughing and BS non PI call, but we are just ööööing horrible.
 
JJacket said:
öööö ööööity öööö öööö.

Damn that was just an exhibition of some of THE worst football I've ever seen. The refs did give UVAg several gifts with the BS roughing and BS non PI call, but we are just ööööing horrible.
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I went by your section and yelled your name. Were you hiding in the womens bathroom?
 
gtleviathan said:
This is the appropriate thread for this post.

As I exited Bobby Dodd, I decided the Vortex was the appropriate destination to drown my sorrows. Just the right mix of desperation and alcohol. Off I went.

As I walked down Techwood, I reflected on the nut punch I had just received. As I did, the dulcet sounds of REM’s Everybody Hurts emanated from the KA fraternity house. Kudos, fellas.

I shambled through Tech Square and passed Cyrpress Street Pint. Full to the gills, as expected. Cheers, you beautiful bastards. Drown your sorrows.

I walked on to Peachtree and hung a left. My oasis glowed in the distance. Surely the tattooed temptresses of the dazed skull would dull the pain that Ma Tech had inflicted this night. As I approached, I noted that no queue stood in the way between me and my booze-filled respite. A glimmer of hope filled my bosom. I reached for the handle and pulled with no effect. Rejected. The Vortex has abandoned me this wretched night.

On I went. Surely Fado would apply the salve I so needed to soothe my aching soul. I entered and locked eyes with the barkeep. He motioned with his hand at his neck. Service was ended. I was relegated to contend with my existential crisis alone.

As I retreated to the desolate streets of Atlanta, I thought back to the line I saw in front of Bulldogs across from the Vortex in my darkest hour. Do I relent and sell my soul for the liquid relief my fandom requires? No, I must push forward.

My forlorn strides carry me north. Surely there must be somewhere in midtown where a heartbroken Yellow Jacket can drown his sorrows on a cursed Thursday night? Slowly but surely the reliable visage of the winged buffalo emerges in all its neon glory.

Taco Mac will have to do. I saunter to the bar and catch the bartender’s attention. What libation to quench this dire affect? The inspired logos of The Dude springs to mind… “I’ll take a Caucasian…”

The barkeep will not abide… “We have no creamer.” Well, isn’t that an additional kick in the scrotum. “I can make a Tito’s and Bailey’s?”

Why the öööö not….:dunno:
Click to expand...

Exactly....why the öööö not?
 
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