the bloodbath at the westport corral

Last night we went for a trivia fest at Westport Flea Market.

I swaggered on in to that little beer-soaked den of sin ready for a fight.

The fiesty, bald ringmaster looked to be a worthy competitor and the way he sucked down them sprites told me he'd been to this rodeo before and wasn't gonna be taken down by a budweiser or 12...unlike the the rowdy band of brothers to my left at 8 o'clock. Their team name, "cunning linguists" let me know they'd be victorious in any movie rounds but largely unthreating if women's lib should appear as the final category.

I settled in with a Newcastle in hand, cocky with English courage and ready to whoop up on the young'uns around me.

And then it started: A barrage of questions worthy of opponents like Ken Jennings or Roger Ebert or a flag afficianado (who knew what sort of flag Bulgaria trumpets off its capital building?)

The winning team celebrated with pitchers of frosty brew and a score of 67 points. I cannot remember their name as my pride had retreated to the parking lot and my ego was following it at a steady run.

Team Craptor finished up with a measly 28 points - our previous high score of 48 squandered on the last two categories at 10 points each: "bloodiness" and "the olympics"

I hang my head today. Not only did we lose, but I owe laundry duty and unsolicited peanut buster parfaits to the bf for my lack of trust in his ability to know the Swedish group that had 4 more gold records than any other group in history.

Abba, you broke my heart. Craig was right to trust that Roxette knew a little thing about love.

But it's over now...