Tonight I had the displeasure of listening to the worst story ever told.
And no, it wasn't Monica talking about how the server must be down because her blackberry hasn't been ringing off the hook the last ten seconds.
The worst part was that the story had all the elements of a summer blockbuster. Incarceration. International intrigue. Identity theft. Betrayal. Salsa Dancing.
Yes. Phil worked the census for the state of Virginia. And all states. But he was earning extra cash by teaching salsa dancing. But not at Summers. And at the same time he worked at an Embassy?
It might have been the Embassy cab company because apparently Phil's friend borrowed his cab and got pulled over by the police but then Phil's friend gave the cops Phil's name and sold him out so Phil got arrested and was in jail during the Steelers-Jets game and he cried in his cell because he couldn't watch the game and he filed a complaint with his lawyer but his jailers didn't want him to go outside.
But Phil let the guy who he says he didn't actually know very well borrow his cab because they studied together in Bombay, India and South Africa for some classes and because the guy's family was rich.
I'm really not doing the story justice. It was fucking brutal because the storyteller was drunk and the story made even less sense than it does in this post.
It was so excruciating I had to scarf down the tuesday fish special and chug my beer and promptly escort myself out of the building so I could regurgiate the yuengling, the fish, and the awful feeling in the pit of my stomach about Phil's future and his storytelling ability right on the sidewalk.