Behold the Champion

Yesterday, we toured downtown Providence and went to the Rhode Island School of Design's art gallery. That afternoon, we had some beers and food at the Trinity Brew Pub. Afterward, we quickly made our way back to the house to watch the Patriots close out their regular season. Around midnight, J3K and I made our way out to Captain Seaweeds, a tiny little dive bar near the house. They were closing up so we had a quick pint and went out in search of another pub.

A little while later, we ended up at what J3K and Sandy refer to as "Thanksgiving Bar." On a prior visit, some of the inebriated older customers invited them to Thanksgiving dinner served at the bar. Last night, the place was packed with a predominantly older African-American crowd. When we walked in at about 12:30, the place was hopping and everyone was well soused. We order a pint, sat back, and drank in everything that was happening around us. We talked for a while until a putrid odor drifted over to us and halted our conversation. At the end of the bar near the restroom, a couple of guys were grimacing at the growing stench. A moment later, a heavy-set guy exited the bathroom. Immediately, they began to give him grief.

"Damn, man, you'd better check your pants. There's something still in there," one suggested.

"You'd better Febreeze your ass," the other guy offered.

The fat guy responded, "I am the champion."

"Why'd you do that in a public toilet, man?," they asked.

"That's what it's there for!," the defecator responded.

As he walked by, the odor intensified. Our eyes watered; we tried not to breathe.

Just then, one of the bartenders walked in from having a cigarette outside. "What the hell is that smell?," he yelled. The place began clearing out.

We abandoned our nearly full beers and left for the safety and purity of the cold, night air.