Freddogg Off The Chain

I love a mailman who ends each day getting hammered at the local bar while retaining that icy stare that enables him to read every smallish psycho cursive writing style passed down by double recessive genes. Larry the Postman of West Chester was the undisputed American dart board champion at Joe’s Bar, a blend of townies and underachieving college types not unlike me.
Bars are magical places and fun, too bad alcoholism is such a ruinous debilitation but while it last, before the loss of job and dissolution of the family, there are tons of laughs and life philosophies to be learned.
Larry and I were tied going into our Tales from the Crypt almost dark out dinner time showdown of split darts-2-3-7 across the bottom. Larry was postage due and pasted while I remember myself as not being under any influence and that’s the beauty of alcohol and handling it, only the losers brag “I am so fucked up”!
Larry held wood-the hammer-so I went first and hit a double and two triples for a score of 8. Larry was lunch meat and he was wobbling like an unbalanced gyroscope. He was having a hard time steadying himself on the toe line that had seen some drunken toes over the years, toes that curled and reached to steady a torso.
I have never read a Shakespearian play but I knew what was coming, Larry threw a “white horse” all triples which won him the game and a beer from me and another on the house.
Beers were a freaking quarter at Happy Hour 1968 and a plasma donation across the street at the blood bank earned eight dollars or 32 beers but no one can drink 32 beers and all I can say to the Lite beer lost generation is-you don’t know anything!
The retrospective question is if you can acquire contagions from a tainted blood transfusion can you also improve your dart game?


Freddogg