So a few weeks ago, we're attending a party in Teens' hometown, and it was a stereotypical small-town Kansas shindig. There were a lot of Southern accents, lots of pick-up trucks parked on the street, and lots of country music being blasted over a beer pong game being played on an old door. Real hootin' and hollerin' type stuff. I only knew three people at the party, so it was one of those nights where you just gotta shrug your shoulders and say "Welp, time to get drunk and make some new friends." Somehow I ended up getting accepted into the toughest crowd at the party. I don't know what they liked the most: if it was my pearl-snap button-down shirt, or gelled-up hair (I had a PERFECT gel job going that night, bro), or biceps the size of a 14-year-old who got cut from the 160-pound weight class on the wrestling team.....but apparently they liked having me around. Sorta like a jester or something. Or maybe I was like Spider in Goodfellas. And we all know how that ended.
In any event, pretty soon we're sitting around a table, playing cards, and talking about stomping the shit out of the random guys from down the street who showed up uninvited to steal beer out of the keg (naturally). I pull out my tin to throw in a Dufner**, much to the approval of the dudes in the group. Subtle glances are exchanged; affirmative headnods are directed my way. My small-town Kansas swag couldn't be any more through the roof. Then, one of the GIRLS across the table asks me to bum a chew. I shake off my surprise (I mean, if she can talk about throwin' some 'bows at the dudes down the street for stealing beer and doing coke in the living room, she can handle a lipper, right?) and slide my tin across the table. She picks it up, makes a disgusted face, and snarls,
"Oh....you chew POUCHES?....nevermind."
Boom. Roasted. In front of all my new tough-guy friends and everything. My swag balloon wasn't just deflated, it was like someone took a knife to it. It popped and the remains flew out of the garage and down the street to the random guys' house-- where now I surely wouldn't be invited anymore when we stormed down the street to stomp them. Not me and my pouches. Maybe the most emasculating moment of my life. I can handle getting ripped on by my buddies all the time for still chewing pouches, but having a girl call me out in front of an entire garage full of tattooed, jean-short wearin', switch-blade carryin', baby-mama havin' Kansans? Ouch.
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**I like to call individual chews different names, depending upon the occasion. For instance, if I'm putting in a chew on the 4th of July, I might call it a Thomas Jefferson. If it's during Christmas break, maybe it's an Ebenezer Scrooge. Etc. etc. etc. On a golf course, it's called a Dufner, in honor of Jason Dufner, who has become my hero (don't worry Phil, I still love you more) because during tournaments on TV, he constantly has a sold-out lower deck in his mouth stadium. You know the CBS producers can't be a fan of that, but Dufner don't give a FUCK. And here's his Twitter profile picture:
As a result of his awesomeness, I've taken to calling chews 'Dufners' even when I'm not golfing. Jason Dufner, American hero.
Just don't tell him I only chew pouches....
