OK, so I stopped by the liquor store.

Nov 10, 2011, 1:02 PM

My wife’s favorite wine is on sale and I’m out of rum. So, I promised her I’d stop by and pick her up a couple bottles. I didn’t really mind, since I was going to get myself some rum. It had been a good day. I played golf and shot three strokes under my handicap. After my round, I drove around the corner and found a parking space right by the front door of the liquor store. I couldn’t help whistling my happy tune as I breezed through the door and headed for the wine section. Yep, there it is—Bogle Chardonnay for $6.99, a great price. Life is so good, I grabbed an extra bottle and headed for the rum section with three bottles in tow. My standard rum, Cruzan, is only $19.99 for the big bottle at this store. Nobody else sells it for that around my area. Still whistling, I nab a liter-and-a-half and pivot to take my payload to the checkout counter.

That’s when I saw him. One of those guys who can sap the happiness out of a circus clown. His usual scowl seeming to leave a wake of dinginess as he strode right toward me, past the bourbon shelf, then cruising by the vodka display. The gap between us is quickly closing. It was the crotchety old deacon from First Baptist—a man so universally detested he’s commonly referred to as the “Demon Deacon.”

You know the type. He’s been “in charge” at the big brick church for forty years. He always gets his way because he’s more than willing to be meaner than anyone else. Many an unsuspecting new member has made the mistake of disagreeing with him only to learn there is a price to be paid. There is no telling how many members that historic congregation has lost because of the Demon Deacon. The man is so miserable, flowers wilt when he passes. Birds cease their singing. Wine turns to vinegar. And here I am, my wonderful day now ruined. Why did I have to run into him? I mused. There was absolutely no avoiding him.

My spirits lifted suddenly when I realized, shoot, he never speaks to anybody in the liquor store. It’s not like I ran into him at the Piggly Wiggly. There’s no chance he’ll even acknowledge me here. My happy whistling resuming, I prepared to be ignored as the miserable ol’ grump approached. To my surprise, the old codger spoke.

“Aren’t you a Clemson fan?” he demanded.

Crap! Trapped in the liquor store with my arms laden with bottles. “You bet! Clemson grad and a Clemson fan,” I reported. Now get lost, you SOB.

“Well your team is going to lose on Saturday. And I don’t mean just lose by a little bit; they’re going to suffer utter humiliation.”

He’s a Wake Forest fan—makes perfect sense. “So, you’ll be in Death Valley wearing black and gold, I presume?”

“Yes I will,” he growled. “Got 50-yard line tickets from the Wake Forest President, himself. He’s a fraternity brother of mine.” A despicable smirk spread across his ugly mug. “I wouldn’t miss this beat down of your over-rated bought-and-paid-for bunch.” His smirk had turned into a sneer.

“What are you talking about, bought-and-paid-for?” I was incredulous.

“I’m talking about Mike Bellamy and his fistful of money. I’m talking about Sammy Watkins choosing Clemson over the U. Everybody knows Clemson bought their only national championship and is still buying players to this day!” His face was so red, I thought he’d have a stroke.

I decided if he was going to have a stroke, it might as well be here. So I goaded him: “Are you sure you’re not a coot?”

“A what?!”

“You know, a peecock, #### lover, lamecock, Columbia chicken.” I was starting to have fun with this.

“No! I’m not a Gamecock fan, although I will say that’s the only clean program in the state of South Carolina. Steve Spurrier is one of the greatest coaches to ever stalk a sideline. And he’s never cheated to win!” I could tell I had pushed a button.

“You’d sure make a good coot, old man; you’re sure delusional enough to fit right in. As for your deacs, there is no way in Hades that bunch pulls an upset in Death Valley, let alone put a beat down on the Tigers. You have that backward. You do know we’re favored by 17, right? We’ll cover that in the first quarter!”

“Why, I ought to . . . .” He was shaking his fist while he said it, his nose so close to mine I could smell the gin on his breath.

“Back off, coot” I warned.

“You want a piece of me, Clemson boy?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Come on, are you chicken?” Now he’s shoving me and egging me on.

“Look, old man, you had better just get out of my way, or I’ll have to do to you what the Tigers are going to do to your deacs on Saturday.”

He persisted. “I’m going to teach you a lesson, tigger.” With that the old coot took a swing at my head. I cut blocked him right there in the aisle between the boxed wine and brandy. That’s one nasty old fart who won’t be in attendance for the Atlantic Division showdown.
Go Tigers!