the Change I Wish to See

Partner in "might as well stay inside" habitualism -- Miss Bianca

  
  -- and I decided to throw caution to the wind and abandon the great indoors, on Saturday.

Right before "the end of the world as I know it"* began, we went over, sideways and under on a magic carpet ride (read: we walked; I "made believe") to
 
Now Duffy's, is no
 
 
-- since there's this one server who looks at me, every time I walk in the door, like I gave her puppy the swift punt in the ass that Jack Black gave to Baxter in Anchorman -- but it's a neighborhood bar, close to the 9:30 Club and has absolutely no complaints when its patrons want to relax and be unimpressive.
 
Despite watching the Cardinals win, the afternoon was cool:

1. We ate cheesy tater tots!
   
2. I displayed the savoir faire of a young Don Imus: When our server said she was just glad the Detroit Lions season was over, I remarked how glad I was that they went 0 and 16.  Then, when she slipped in that she was from Michigan and expressed hope that at least it couldn't get worse, I pounded her subtlety with my ignorance and promptly informed her that the 1976 Tampa Bay Bucs went 0-14 and then came back the next year and lost 12 more in a row, promising her it sure as hell could get worse.
3. And for the first time ever, I emptied a keg** of my favorite,

    
But then there was this guy:
  
  
We sat at a table directly across from an arcade game, Big Buck Hunter.  And this guy, as you can see above -- fake orange rifle in black-gloved-hands -- spent the better part of an hour, blasting virtual creatures.
 
"Now, f.B," you acknowledge, "you've never mentioned that you had a PETA card."
  
And I don't.  But what I do have is a heart.  And it unapologetically ached when I'd take a bite of my Duffy burger, look up to the left, and watch this guy air-gage pumping the sh*t out of unsuspecting little "dee-yas."***
  
It was like watching the special features on Bambi: Uncut and Unforgiving.
  
Then came the squealing: he was shelling gophers.  Cuddly gophers.  And they would squeal when hit with a bullet in the face.  The screen read: "Number of gophers shot - 23 of 25."  Oh, to be one of the maimed and gimpy two, I guess.
 
Then my stomach dropped.  Upon reaching the status of "Hunter Hero," he got to some bonus round that let him go trap shooting.  But, of course, he wasn't shooting at clay discs.

me: are those flying cowpies?

miss bianca: *aghast*

He was shooting flying cowpies; flying formerly-known-as-food balls.
 
We didn't stay much longer.  In all honesty, it had little to do with the master blaster.  He ended up running out of bloodlust before we were done.  We had to return the magic carpet (translation: [none] you read that right.  And you thought I was kidding about the carpet).
  
Anyway, this post could never get this blog confused as a food or restaurant blog of merit.  So, think of it more as a theory on why we don't get around much anymore.



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*The division rival Arizona Cardinals hosted a home playoff game.
**Apparently Duffy's carries 2-pint-sized kegs, since after two Stellas, there was none left in the whole bar.
***I'm guessing they didn't care what kind of pants the son of a b$tch who shot them was wearing, either.