I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Read Free Page A

grappling, and a white banner behind the ring, proclaiming for all to see, "THIS IS THE SOUTHERN WRESTLING ASSOCIATION." Hate is the first into action. Being an ex-high-school wrestler, completely shit-housed, and constantly filled with rage, he immediately pushed his way though the layers of crowd to arrive ringside, and began yelling curses at the wrestlers.
    ''THESE FUCKING CLOWNS ARE AWFUL! MY GRANDMOTHER COULD WRESTLE BETTER THAN THIS! YOU'RE LUCKY I'M NOT IN THERE, YOU COCK-SUCKING PUSSIES!! LET ME WRESTLE, I'LL KICK THEIR FUCKING ASSES!!"
    This continued for a good five minutes. All of us were mesmerized, drunkenly fixated on this surreal comedy playing out before our eyes. To Hate's credit, the guys in the ring were not in good shape. If by "not in good shape," I mean "fat and disgusting."
    A mere one beer later, Hate made his move. He stepped over the ropes that separated the crowd from the ring, and began banging on the canvas, yelling at the wrestlers. A bouncer told him to stop. Hate takes this as a cue to get into the ring, and beer firmly in hand, tried to climb into the ring. Two bouncers pulled him out of the ring before he could climb all the way in. We collected Hate from the bouncers, promised that he will behave, and gave him another beer. Hate continued repeating "My grandmother could kick their asses, this is a complete joke," over and over to himself.
    Then I noticed how much we stood out. We were dressed in the standard grad-school uniform; khaki's and button down's. No one around us shared our fashion sense. They were dressed in "redneck casual;" dirty blue jeans and assorted trailer-park shirts (e.g. WWF shirts with logos like, "Come Smell What the Rock is Cooking"). The better dressed had on cowboy hats, cowboy boots, flannel shirts and clean blue jeans. Having grown up in Kentucky, I knew that these sorts of people generally don't take kindly to those they perceive as rich and snobbish, especially when they've been drinking. I filed that thought under "obvious foreshadowing."
    By this time, Hate had separated from us and found his way into a discussion with a group of younger red necks about the relative merits of the North versus the South. Hate is from Pennsylvania. They did not share his views. He claimed that he could whip any wrestler in the bar that night. Two of the rednecks, one very fat, claimed to be cousins of one of the wrestlers, the one called "Motorbike Mike," or some such bullshit. Hate questioned the sexuality of their cousin. A girl in the group claimed to be the girlfriend of "Motorbike Mike." Hate questioned her taste in men, her moral turpitude, and her intelligence. The fat one, the alleged cousin of Motorbike Mike, who was apparently also somehow a relative of the girl, took exception to this. He was about 6'1", making him a good 8 inches taller than Hate. He had thick glasses, so horribly smudged I wanted to rip them off his face and clean them on my shirt (remember, I'm sober). His white tank-top shirt had grease and ketchup stains on it, partially covering the "George Strait" concert logo.
    The redneck desperately needed a course in logic. He was losing an argument to someone so drunk he tried to climb into a wrestling ring: Hate 'The south is full of inbreds and red necks. How are you related to both of them?"
    The redneck tries to explain. I'm not able to follow. Hate ignores him.
    Hate "None of this changes the fact that they're dating, and they're related. That is incest. You are southern in-bred trash."
    Redneck "Yeah, well the north is just a bunch of rich bitches." Hate "Possibly, but that doesn't change the fact that you have not responded to me. You are obviously an idiot also."
    Redneck "Wa, well ... You ain't worth a shit, and neither is the north." Hate "That's a great comeback. You're making my point for me, moron."
    Redneck "Bitch, I'll fight'cha ass. Well see who's better then, ya ric h bitch. "
    A few more minutes of this, and the wrestling round mercifully