So I’m sittin’ in this bah ovah on Boylston Street sippin’ my Hahpoon IPA n’ watchin’ the Pats when in walks this fuckin’ loudmouth qwee’uh with some’ah his friends n’ he’s goin’ on ’bout how he prehfuhrs the hrynhenda fohm’ah ancient Nahrse poetry ovah the dróttkvætt fohm on accoun’ah it’s havin’ mohr syllables per fuckin’ line n’ that makes it, yah know, mohr fuckin’ complex ah whatevah n’ yah can tell that this guy’s got a real fuckin’ hahd-on fah that complicated intellectual type’ah shit. But whatevah you know, ‘cause this just ain’t the typical kind’ah convuhsation muhterial that yah nohmally ovah heahr when yah’re out havin’ a pint n’ I kindah just jehrked my head back like I just got kicked in the fuckin’ face by Gostkowski.

So natuhrally I’m thinkin’ that this guy’s gottah be affiliated with Hahvahd one way ah anothah, ’cause who the fuck else would be talkin’ ’bout 1000 year old Scandinavian poetics in a fuckin’ Irish bah? Anyway these people, they all go on ovah tah a table in the cohrnah but this guy, he just keeps on talkin’ like someone actually gives a fuckin’ shit. I mean, I’m sittin’ cleah ’cross the room n’ I can’t even get this guy’s fuckin’ voice outtah my head n’ it’s not long befohr he’s fuckin’ all like,

“Well, you see my dear Charlotte, the dróttkvætt was known for it’s extreme compositional difficulty and that’s why it was the preferred metric form of Egil Skallagrimsson, who as you must surely know was not only the greatest poet of the entire Viking Age, but also a murderer and lifelong enemy of Eirik Bloodaxe…”

N’ I can tell yah, but I don’t think poohr Charlotte really gave a fuckin’ shit ‘bout Egil ah Eirik ah any’ah the rest’ah that goddamned bullshit that this guy was throwin’ at her. N’ I mean who can fuckin’ blame her? Yah go tah a bah with some people from yah fuckin’ depahtment at school ah whatevah the fuck n’ then yah end up with some guy who won’t even let yah come up fah aihr ‘cause he’s too busy tryin’ tah explain why some jehrk-off poet yah nevah even heard of befohr from medieval Iceland told some guy on an island off the coast’ah Nahway that he was an “enemy of ogres” n’ then prahceeded tah call him a “black-hearted prick” in front’ah a bunchah othah guys even though this supposedly black-hearted guy had just given him a beer free’ah chahge.

N’ then, yah know, it just gets even fuckin’ weihrdah ‘cause next thing that happens is this poohr black-heahrted bastahd, he goes n’ he fuckin’ rats Egil out tah the Queen’ah Nahway n’ then tahgether they go n’ they put poison in Egil’s next beer. I mean, what the fuck, right? I mean, yeah, the guy’s definitely a dick n’ all, but poisonin’ him? Yah gottah be fuckin’ shittin’ me. But it doesn’t even mattah though ‘cause Egil, he figyuhs out somethin’s up n’ so what he does is he cahrves some runes on his drinkin’ glass, then he cuts his hand with his fuckin’ knife, n’ then he rubs his blood allovah the runes that he just fuckin’ cahrved. N’ then yah know what happens? That drinkin’ glass, it completely fuckin’ shattahs n’ all that poisonous beer spills onto the ground so that no one would drink it n’ fuckin’ die. It was kindah fuckin’ magical, yah know, like when Tom Brady throws an amazin’ game-winnin’ pass in the final minutes’ah the game, only he doesn’t’ have tah fuckin’ slice his hand up with an old knife in ohrdah tah make it happen.

But I’m gettin’ off topic with that ‘cause the main issue here’s that poohr Charlotte’s fuckin’ bored outtah her mind listenin’ tah this shit. N’ yah don’t gottah be a fuckin’ rocket scientist tah see that this guy who’s doin’ all the talkin’s got a fuckin’ Crimson coluh’d erection pruhtrudin’ from his ego like it’s the goddamned Citgo sign.

So now I’m lookin’ ovah at the bahtendah n’ we both ahr just kindah rollin’ our eyes at each othah n’ so I staht makin’ this sick, vomitin’ sound right when that bigmouth dipshit walks up tah the bah n’ stands right there next tah me. I mean, I couldn’t ah had wohrse fuckin’ timin’ but I guess luck was in my favuh the way it wasn’t fah the Ravens last week ’cause this guy didn’t seem tah realize I was makin’ fun’ah him ah anything.

So all he does is he ohrdahs a round ah mahtinis n’ Long Island iced teas n’ then he just stands there n’ waits fah ’em n’ I staht thinkin’, ah yah know maybe I oughtah just tell this guy that he’s relyin’ on a real dubious choice’ah tactic if he’s expectin’ his knowledge’ah ancient Nahrse poetry tah be his ticket intah some nice girl’s pants. I mean, especially when the poetry yah talkin’ ’bout mostly involves graphic descriptions’ah a bunchah really hairy guys decapitatin’ each othah n’ gettin’ their intestines ripped out n’ left tah dry out in the sun n’ chewed on by the fuckin’ bihrds. I mean, that’s the kindah shit that mightah inspiy’ed some wicked crazy bastahd like Tolkien but I had my doubts that it’d inspiy’ah poohr Charlotte who’s sittin’ ovah at the cohrnah table n’ plannin’ on writin’ her thesis ’bout Jane Austen ah Louise May Alcott.

N’ yah know, it’s not just that, but the general public at lahge don’t really have much’ah an intuhrest in Egil ah Eirik these days. N’ I guess that’s kindah faihr ‘cause these guys ahren’t all that famous anymohr, which is kindah too fuckin’ bad though ‘cause they actually got some pretty intuhrestin’ stories ‘bout ‘em even if they weren’t all that fuckin’ likeable as people. I mean, Egil, he’s a fuckin’ hunchback goon with a stick the size’ah a telephone perhmuhnently stuck up his ass n’ Eirik, he might’ah been an okay guy except that he killed most’ah his own brothahs with a fuckin’ axe n’ on top’ah that his wife’s a goddamned demon straight outtah hell. I mean, this is not some attractive, sweet couple like Tom n’ Gisele. N’ what’s mohr is they fuckin’ hate Egil. I mean, they really fuckin’ hate him n’ so all three’ah ‘em, they just send their lives spinnin’ outtah fuckin’ control on accoun’ah all the evil magic spells that they just keep castin’ at each each othah n’ shit.

But anyway, this Hahvahd guy, he finally gets his drinks n’ I don’t really feel like tryin’ to strike up a convuhsation with him so I just go back tah watchin’ Belichick scowl at his players from the sideline n’ wish poohr Charlotte a silent prayuh ah good luck with the fuckin’ ego maniac who’s headin’ back her way.