Brosef Stalin and The Broletariat:
Ryan Mcdonald
Colonel B
Mark Haslam
Devin Fitzpatrick
Eugene Lee
Robin Simmons
We conquered Beckett's Pub Trivia Night uncontested. What a fanstastic way to end my college career. And I felt good enough to wake up bright and early this morning.
I must have been Brosef Stalin, because my only contribution to the rise of the Broletariat was the cult of personality. Ryan McDonald was the Broletariat, and our revolution rode on his shoulders. It was only right that he should pick the envelope. And there it was: Jackpot.
I remember the final round. Surrounded by various hecklers and women (lowly distractors) -- just barely straddling the limits of what can happen before we get DQ'ed -- I clutched the piece of paper, focusing intently on the questions and putting down whatever I could discern around me. Haslam brought his own knowledge, plus the alliance of the Schmoo, for which we owe him greatly on this occasion, though it is unclear that we would have lost without it.
The Victory Run to the bear's lair is exactly what it should have been -- greeted warmly by security and bartenders alike when we got there -- with a free pitcher.
The only additional prize I could have asked was that they might have retrospectively paid my 30 dollar newcastle tab. What a bunch of bullshit that was.
Either way, we Contained the Dragon. We fucking mastered it. We were in spirit team Dragonheart. Domination flowed through our veins like water rushing through the rivers of Scotland. I'll go farther. We were Scotland. We were Robert the Bruce, and Lulach the Simple, and William Wallace, and Sean Connery.
The league of extraordinary gentlemen indeed.
Truly last night was worthy of noting in the books.
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