What a night at Granite City last night!

Whew.

We had it all.

Questions on wine, women, and song (really, there was a round on each of those). We had beer overflowing. We had trainees, Jessica and Kenny, and oodles of teams just chomping at the bit.

I would like to say, "thank goodness."

Because I had, up until I arrived at GC, kind of a cruddy day. I had worked all day, and then rushed home to clean up and rush out again to Prairie Village municipal court to deal with a traffic ticket. I waited nearly 2 hours, even though I was the first person there. Apparently, if you get a lawyer to contest your ticket, you get to go in front of people who just want to say, “Yes I turned right on red, even though the sign said not to. I'm very sorry. Here is all my money,” and get the hell out of there. Lawyers get to go before the plebs, even if they have been waiting an hour and a half.

WTF?

For those not familiar with Prairie Village, allow me to introduce you to this white-bread suburban shit hole. It's a place where there are no people of color, and everyone thinks they are really important because they are bordering the wealthy neighborhoods of Mission Hills and Fairway. 

Here is the truth, Prairie Villagers.

You are living in a place that other people around you refused to live. You are the eastern ghetto of Johnson County. You are where all the people that work for other people live. I mean, my employees live there. That's right, you are populated with minions of a Quizmaster. Suck on that.

 

Oh, but the cruddiness didn't end with the 2-hour $300 visit to PV. No. While sitting there in the courtroom, a screw fell out of my glasses and disappeared from our time-space continuum.

So there I am, no glasses, bored as hell and wearing pants. Did I mention I was wearing pants? Not shorts. No. Long, hot, uncomfortable pants. Dood!? It's been 105 degrees for six weeks now. No one should have to wear pants. Not even people with ugly legs. It's criminal.

Now imagine, if you will, the relief I felt the moment I stepped into the cool inviting venue that we call Granite City.

Granite City, where all the staff are helpful and smell good. And they have huge vats of beer just waiting to be lovingly poured into gigantic ice-cold mugs.

Doesn't that sound dreamy?

But Kittens, it wasn't a dream. It was real. I sat down, fixed my glasses with a repair kit I picked up from the CVS and started the quiz. I did the 3 rounds I talked about before the rant. We also had a couple of great audio rounds. Daddy issues; songs about dads and then theme songs from reality shows on which no one, except Army of One who answered 5 correct, did very well. Then I spent the last 20 minutes of the quiz playing nothing but Andy Williams songs. No one seemed to notice or care. The Dow Hats? Bought me a gi-normus beer, but it didn't help their score, because Jessica and Kenny were doing all the scoring.

Maybe you should have bought them beers?

It wouldn't have worked anyway.

I don't allow my trainees to have any enjoyment during training.

At all.

Ever.

Even at home.

Oh yeah, I know what they are doing every single moment. I am that omnipotent.

Right now, Kenny is standing in front of a mirror with a hair brush microphone trying to do his best Rogue 4®, and Jessica is keeping track of every answer anyone gives, for any reason, on a spreadsheet.

Our training is ... rigorous.

The Dow Hats? Took 2^nd and Bag O Douches the Remix nailed 1^st.

This has been Pub Quiz.