Allegedly in golf parlance, the final approach is the part of that whack-the-little-white-ball game when you’re within spitting distance of that little patch of grass that’s been scalped and is stuck through the middle with a flag – I think. I don’t know for certain, and I honestly doubt that any of the regulars at the regular-guy joint near Burleson called the Final Approach would know, either.
At least that’s my guess based on the crowd there last Monday. The brunt of one particularly highbrow conversation had to do with the absurdity of the Nashville Pussy “hit” “Blowjob From a Rattlesnake.” From a purely academic standpoint, the, uh, inflationary effect of a rattlesnake bite (Google it, if you’re curious) would put all of those creatively misspelled boner pills to shame. Interestingly, the convo was initiated by a cowboy who originally hails from Jamaica. Even more interesting – but much less surprising – was another guy who raised the Jamaican cowboy’s story with one that involved himself, a buddy, booze, Valium, and a highly irritated baby ratt’ler. As you can probably guess, the ending was not happy, but the coda was a treat. After slamming his shot, the guy said, “And now he and I go to church a lot more often.”
Anyway, the Final Approach was pretty dead last Monday, but on most weekends, all four pool tables are full of dudes and their old ladies, sinking eight balls (not those kind) and knocking back shots of Crown Royal ($3 all day, every day). All in all, a pretty good time. Not as good as can be had with a sexy rattlesnake, but, then again, I’m not looking to increase my church attendance. – Steve Steward
