Imagine having two tickets to see the Saints-Cardinals game last week.
You call up a buddy and ask if he’s in. Of course the buddy has to check with his wife because he’s a pussy and can’t say “Hey, the Saints are in the playoffs, I’m going to get drunk and act like I’m 22 again.”
Anyway, the buddy promises his wife they’ll go out for a romantic dinner in return for his attending the game. On gameday the beers and shots are flowing. It’s getting close to gametime so the two of you head into the Superdome to find the seats.
And find them. Not bad at all. End zone for a playoff game will work.
Then she walks in. This woman. Underboob. Your buddy suddenly starts talking about how bad his marriage is.
He pulls out his camera and starts snapping.
And snaps. Again.
These shots are going to look awesome in the car dealership repair shop lunchroom, he tells you.
You nod and figure his wife will find the photos on the camera and never allow him out of the house for a Saints game – ever!
He calls you Wednesday and wants to know if you and the wife want to come over to watch the Saints-Vikings on his brand new 61″ LCD.
You know his ass was busted.