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pushed his way through 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 he would 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: khakis and button-downs. 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 rednecks 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 eight 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 rednecks. 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, inbred 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 “Oh, that’s a great comeback. You’re making my point for me, moron.”

      Redneck “Bitch, I’ll fight’cha ass. We’ll see who’s better then, ya rich bitch.”

      A few more minutes of this, and the wrestling round mercifully ended, creating a short break in the action. I pulled Hate away from this stimulating conversation, and we joined everyone else at the bar. Hate ordered shots for the group.

      After a post-shot round of beers, the mechanical bull started up. Hate not only signed himself up, but continuously yelled across the bar at the fat redneck with the smudged glasses until he came over and signed up also. El Bingeroso slammed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and called the redneck out.

      El Bing “Hey FATASS, ten bucks says my friend rides longer than you.”

      Redneck “Screw you, Northern bitch. I’ll fucking outride your mom.” El Bing “What? My mother’s not here, idiot. You just have to outride him,” pointing at Hate.

      The redneck walked off without answering. After a few girls rode the bull, the redneck got on and was thrown after about four seconds. A poor showing. We mock him mercilessly. He flips us off. We cheer loudly.

      Hate rode for the full 8 seconds, an eventful eight seconds at that. The first four or so he was doing fine, until the bull reared back, and flung him forward. Hate, had he been like the redneck, would have flown off into the cushions. But Hate is sort of like a British pitbull: once his jaws are locked, nothing short of death can get him to release. As a result, his entire body landed on his crotch, which hit his hand, which he had tied to the saddle horn. You could almost see him turn green as his entire body weight crushed his testicles against his wrist. To his credit, he stayed on for the full 8 seconds.

      Hate, along with El Bingeroso and Thomas who have joined in the North vs. South discussion, begin taunting the fat redneck.

      Hate “Hey, Jethro, how’d I stay on longer than you? Your fat ass alone should have kept you on for more than four seconds.”

      Thomas “Can anyone from the South do anything right?”

      El Bing “Maybe if you weren’t fucking your cousin, you’d be able to hold on tighter.”

      Hate “I thought the North wasn’t worth a shit? I’ve never even seen a mechanical bull before tonight, and I outrode your sorry ass.”

      The redneck flips us off again, yells a stream of non sequiturs that he presumably intended as disparaging remarks, and storms off with his friends. This enrages Hate:

      Hate “HE OWES YOU TEN DOLLARS!!”

      El Bingeroso and I convince Hate that it’s OK, that in this case a moral victory is sufficient.

      The mechanical bull interlude over, wrestling began again. Everything stayed calm for a while. The two wrestlers were incredibly fat, but they were using props (trash cans and such) and fake blood, so it was entertaining.

      I went to the bathroom, and when I get back Hate had disappeared again. I found him up against the ring, trying to grab one of the wrestlers by the ankle. I run over to the ring, where the bouncers had pulled him off the ring, and were trying to calm him down. He did not respond to them agreeably.

      At this point, dealing with Hate was like taking a leashed pit bull to the Westminster Dog Show. I assist the bouncers with moving Hate away from the ring, and he and I end up in the area where the fat redneck and his entourage are. By this time, Motorbike Mike has come down to hang out with his girlfriend and myriad cousins. Hate, seeing the fat redneck, demands El Bingeroso’s ten dollars. Motorbike Mike and I try to break them up, when Hate realizes who he is and yells at him,

      “YOU FUCK YOUR COUSIN! YOU INBRED BITCH, GIVE ME MY TEN DOLLARS. I’LL KICK BOTH YOUR SOUTHERN WHITE TRASH ASSES.”

      And then hell starts breaking loose.

      The bouncers lose their patience with Hate, and three of them, plus Motorbike Mike, picked him up and literally threw him out the back door. It was a scene straight out of Road House. I go to find everyone else, still at the bar, to tell them that Hate has been thrown out. El Bingeroso and Thomas are drunk, hanging all over each other, telling college stories to each other that both were there for. Brownhole is talking to the only female bartender with a full set of teeth, and GoldenBoy is cheering the wrestlers, urging them to spill more fake blood.

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