You came into my work with 100 or so of your friends from the army. You came so you could eat cheap nachos, drink beer, and scream about almost-goals. In the kitchen I heard the cheers getting louder and louder and thought the game must have been going well. I came out with my arms full of plates of food for your hungry mates. As I walked past you the whole place erupted with applause. You frantically waved your scarf in the air, slapping me directly in the face with it. You offered no apology, chuckled a little, and continued to applaud. On my way back to the kitchen I glanced at the TV and saw that the score was 0-0. I got bitch slapped by your fucking scarf so you could celebrate a fucking tie. So tonight, while you and your scarf wearing army cried into your cups at Jeld-Wen, I poured my self a beer and smiled at the thought of your title hopes crashing down like a freshly felled tree.
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