Although often loath to admit it, we men need the company of women. It’s a decidedly civilizing influence on us, one which I not only recognize, but celebrate. And, being single, doing so is not much of a challenge, either. My dear brother Rob Roy, and my brother-in-law Hank, on the other hand, are married men, and although I’m sure they both deeply love and highly respect their spouses, frankly, there are times when they would go nuts if they couldn’t get away from them.
So it’s convenient for Rob and Hank to know somebody like me, who can provide an environment free of females (and children, for that matter), where fellows like us can play cards, shoot pool, watch sports for hours without interruption, eat what we want without criticism and drink as much as we please. Thus it was today, when the three of us gathered at my place in Great Falls, Virginia, with just those express purposes. And, if it hadn’t been for Hank’s most recent political obsession, everything would have been quite copacetic, I’m sure.
My brother-in-law brought his latest hobby horse into the paddock during a game of eight ball. Now, eight ball is a pocket billiard game with a unique distinction, which is that there is no one, universally accepted set of rules for the game. Oh, sure, I’m well aware that poker has two versions – one in which so-called ‘round-the-corner’ straights (e.g., Q-K-A-1-2) are allowed, and one in which they are not.
Furthermore, I know that there are two versions of half-court basketball, one with the “winners take out” rule and another without it. As a reasonably good chess player, I am likewise aware that there are three universally accepted rules for stalemate, and a fourth, based on “theoretical impossibility,” that only a minority of players recognize. And not that any guy with a reasonable testosterone count would play it, but I also know that the game of Scrabble really depends on what dictionary the players choose to use, and not every Scrabble player recognizes a choice of dictionaries as legal within that game’s rules. And there are many other instances, including, for example, rules that families adopt for playing Monopoly or other popular board games at home that cause considerable debate when invoked elsewhere.
But such considerations are as nothing when compared to eight ball. What happens, for example, when a player sinks the eight ball on the break? In one interpretation of the game, they win, in another, they lose. When a player, “scratches,” which is to say, they sink the cue ball, an event which can occur with surprising regularity in situations involving alcohol consumption, does he or she have to “spot” the ball as it was during the break, or merely place it behind the imaginary line running through the cue ball spot? And no matter what might be decided about that, are any balls knocked into various pockets on a scratch shot replaced back to the table? If so, then, would that be all of them, or just those assigned to the player who scratched? In other words, are the scratching player’s opponent’s balls necessarily placed back on the table, too, or not? And if any balls knocked in during a scratch are to be replaced, where and how should they be positioned on the table? Of course, nearly everybody agrees that if you scratch, you lose your turn, but what about if you “combinate” off your opponents balls? That is to say, what if you have, say, solids, and you pull off some fancy shot that involves ricocheting one or more striped balls around the table in order to achieve your objective – do you lose your turn then, or not? If so, what about the eight ball – can you “combinate” off that without losing your turn?
The object of eight ball, of course, is to shoot all the balls of your assigned type (stripes or solids) off the table, then sink the eight ball. Are players required to accurately predict, or “call” the eight ball shot? In those versions of the rules where that is so, and the eight ball does not behave as they predict, they lose – don’t they? Or, should that happen, is the game merely a draw? And what about those versions where players are expected to “call” every shot? Presumably, one would expect that if their predictions fail, then it would immediately be their opponent’s turn to shoot, but some players hold this is the case only if the shot in question “combinated” off the opposing player’s balls, maintaining that the point of “calling” shots is to protect the opponent’s ball position.
I could go on, but I doubt it’s necessary – suffice it to say, I would not recommend that anybody ever bet money on a game of eight ball, especially a game played with strangers or mere acquaintances.
So it was during a game of eight ball that Hank went off on me about the rules. He was playing against Rob Roy, and on the break, he knocked in the eight ball. Hank claimed that, since he had knocked the eight ball in on the break, he had won. Rob said that since Hank had not “claimed stripes or solids” by knocking in at least one ball besides the eight ball, he had lost. That’s how you get started with a game of eight ball, you see – a player is assigned either stripes or solids on the basis of which type they knock into a pocket first. Unless they (a) knock in at least one of each type on the break, in which case some people say you get your choice, while others say your opponent gets their choice and, (b) you either lose your turn or not; or, (c) you get assigned the type of which you have knocked in the most, or your opponent does. Now permute all of the elements in situations (a) through (c), and you have some idea of what kind of arguments can arise playing the noble game of eight ball.
Since it was my house, eight ball tradition called for me to arbitrate. Now, being a reasonably smart guy, even if I do say so myself, I had foreseen such circumstances, and long ago prepared what I thought was an exhaustive and comprehensive set of eight ball rules, which I printed out in a nice, readable 10 point Times New Roman font, and laminated in clear plastic. It hangs on a wall in the basement near the pool table. Imagine my dismay, however, when, after consulting that artifact, I realized, despite being two pages long (printed on front and back), my Rules of Eight Ball did not cover the situation at hand.
So, I made a judgment call. “The house rules,” I informed the players, “don’t cover these circumstances. Therefore, since the discrepancy occurred at the very beginning of play, I exercise my prerogative as host and declare the game null and void. Start over.”
“You’re just like Obama,” Hank groused in a surly tone.
“Huh?” I replied, not quite comprehending Hank’s simile.
“You don’t know what rules will work,” Hank explained, “so you just tell us to start over! What you did,” he complained, pointing at Rob Roy, “was ignore my superior skills and all the hard work I’ve devoted to becoming a competent and responsible eight ball player and give Rob here a huge, undeserved bailout!”
Fortunately, Rob doesn’t take eight ball or Hank all that seriously. “Okay,” Rob said with an indifferent shrug, “you win, Hank. Tom plays the winner.” With that, Rob handed me his cue and went to the fridge for another beer.
I racked them up and Hank broke, because according to the House Rules of Eight Ball at my place, when conducting a “play the winner” tournament, after the first game, the winner of that game breaks the balls, as does the winner of each subsequent game, while the challenger racks them. And the player who breaks the balls in the first game of such a tournament is decided by a coin toss, and that player is also required to rack the balls for the first game. I mean, really, I have sincerely tried to address every eventuality with my House Eight Ball Rules, and rest assured I have since added a new paragraph concerning what Hank and Rob were arguing about and will print out my revised and extended House Eight Ball Rules by tomorrow at the latest. And for the record, from now on at my house, if you knock the eight ball in on the break, you win only if you knock in at least one ball of one type only (a stripe or a solid, but not both) and, of course, you don’t scratch. Otherwise, you lose.
Hank’s break was hard and clean, but nothing went in. “Looks like I sure fixed up a nice lie for you there, Tom,” he grumbled as he stepped back to watch me shoot.
“Three in the side pocket,” I proclaimed, deciding on the solids. At my house, unless you scratch, whatever goes in the pockets on a shot stays there and counts, but if you don’t call that shot completely and correctly, you lose your turn. Players are not permitted to call their opponent’s balls, so, obviously, if you knock any of them in on your shot, you have blown the call and lose your turn. Combinations on your opponent’s balls, however, are allowed, but you have to call them completely and correctly, otherwise you lose your turn; combinations on the eight ball, on the other hand, are allowed and aren’t required to be part of a player’s call (but if a player does call a combination on the eight ball, the shot must employ the specified eight ball combination; otherwise, it’s their opponent’s turn). If you scratch, by the way, those of your balls you knocked in on that shot, but none of your opponent’s, should any of theirs have been sunk, are replaced to the table, forming a line on the rack spot perpendicular to the scratch line. The cue ball may be returned to the table at any point behind the scratch line. As can be seen, I really needed to use 10 point type (and very narrow margins in all four directions) to get my House Rules of Eight Ball squeezed into both sides of an 8 1/2 X 11 inch piece of paper.
“I’m just glad I tea bagged your man Obama last Wednesday,” Hank muttered as I lined up my shot.
“You did?” I replied, sinking the three ball in the side.
“Oh, yeah,” Hank affirmed, nodding proudly. “We gathered at Lafayette Square on Wednesday and tea bagged that oppressive Socialist hypocrite in the White House all morning long!”
“Two in that corner,” I continued, taking position deliberately. “I hear the cops chased everybody away after someone threw a box onto the White House lawn. Seems they had a genuine bomb scare paranoiac fit about it.”
“God damned fascist pigs,” Hank spat contemptuously. “Nothing but tools for the corrupt liberal power structure. I bet it was one of their undercover agents who threw that box of tea bags over the fence, too – in order to provide them with an excuse to break up the demonstration!”
“You,” I observed as I stroked the cue ball gently across the table, “are quite the revolutionary firebrand these days, Hank.” The two ball plopped into the designated corner pocket with a satisfying plunk.
“God Almighty, Tom,” Hank shot back, “with him going around the world insulting the Queen of England, groveling like a slave to the King of Saudi Arabia, and telling everybody America isn’t a Christian country anymore, I figure somebody’s got to tea bag Obama, so it might as well be me! As a matter of fact, I’m proud to be one of the millions of conservatives who tea bagged Obama this week, and later, I want to tea bag every Democrat in Congress, too! The way I figure, they deserve it, all of them!”
“I’m confident,” I assured him, “that many Democrats, not the least of whom, I suppose, would be Barney Frank, will enjoy that immensely. One ball in the side.”
“Enjoy it?” Hank blurted out, confused. “What makes you think Barney Frank would enjoy it if I tea bagged him?”
I put just enough English on the cue ball so as to avoid the eleven and sunk the one ball into the side with a sharp and manly thwack.
“Ah, look, Hank,” I empathized, “I’m aware that you conservative types aren’t, shall we say, down with the street, but I must confess, I was flabbergasted when I heard you people and your media pundits extolling the virtues of ‘tea bagging,’ that’s for sure. Are you, by any chance at all, aware of what ‘tea bagging’ meant before you and your politically like-minded buddies started using the term?”
At that, Hank’s face took on a distinct pallor. “Tom,” he inquired with a trembling voice, “are you telling me that ‘tea bagging’ has some other meaning, one it possessed prior to the tea bag protests this week?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “that’s exactly what I’m saying. Seven in the corner.”
“What… what kind of meaning?” Hank asked uncertainly.
The seven ball was hanging like a ripe peach, ready to fall into the corner pocket, less than an inch away and dead centered, too. A gentle tap was all it took. “Hank,” I cautioned, “I think you better sit down before I go any farther with this.” He did.
“It made us look stupid,” Hank conjectured, “didn’t it, Tom?”
“Hank,” I confirmed, “you just proved you’re smarter than the average conservative, because you at least have enough brains to reach that conclusion once somebody gives you sufficient facts. Yeah,” I elaborated as I took a moment to rub talcum powder on my hands, “what the American conservatives did last week was announce to the entire planet that they are so insulated from the normal world, so culturally isolated, and so far removed from reality, they don’t even realize when they’re screaming gutter profanity, over and over again, in front of television cameras, over the Internet, in newspapers and on the radio.”
“So we were discrediting ourselves when we said ‘tea bagging?’” Hank murmured disconsolately.
“And how, my friend,” I confirmed, lining up my next shot. “Hey Rob! You want to tell our dear, conservative, Palin-loving, tax-hating, Obama-despising, George-Bush-supporting, Ronald-Reagan-quoting, choice-opposing, free-market-believing Republican brother-in-law here what ‘tea bagging’ is? Four in the side.” The cue ball banked smartly off the cushion with reverse top English, crisply carrying the four ball into the opposite side pocket.
“Sure, Tom,” Rob snickered, “it would be an honor. ‘Tea bagging,’” he explained, as Hank’s eyes widened and popped out to the dimensions of a tarsier with a hyperthyroid condition, while Rob amused himself by very deliberately and grandiosely imitating the way I talk, “is when person A assumes a reclining position, and person B squats over their face, so as to allow for effective juxtaposition of B’s ‘pendant naughty bits’ with A’s buccal cavity, and then dips, in the manner of a tea bag into hot water, those body parts into said buccal cavity in a repetitive manner as a means of erotic gratification.”
“Excuse me,” Hank exclaimed, rushing into the bathroom. After about five minutes of retching sounds, followed by running water, he emerged. “Tom,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly from side to side, “I can’t believe American conservatives made such total fools of themselves.”
“Yeah,” Rob told him, “I don’t often agree with you Hank, but there’s no doubt in my mind about it – you guys on the Right looked like a bunch utterly clueless morons, running around yelling ‘tea bagging’ like you did.”
“How long,” Hank gulped, has “’tea bagging’ been around?”
“Since at least the sixties,” I responded, “but mostly only in the gay community. The term didn’t get into the general vocabulary until the Sony BMG CD copyright protection scandal in 2005.”
“Copyright protection scandal?” Hank was clearly bewildered at that point.
“In 2005,” Rob explained, “Sony started distributing music CD’s with a root kit on them. Those [expletive] called them ‘Extended Copy Protection’ and ‘MediaMax CD-3,’ but they were root kits, plain and simple.”
Hank’s expression went completely blank. “What’s a ‘root kit?’”
“Software intentionally designed to break into and compromise your computer,” Rob continued.
“Sony did that?” Hank’s expression resembled a small child who has learned that Santa Claus doesn’t really exist.
“Sure did,” Rob affirmed. “And when they did, somebody in San Francisco said ‘I’ll ride a Brompton bicycle, / Or I’ll tea bag a mime, / Before I’ll give the Sony Corp. / Another [expletive] dime.’ That meme spread all over the Internet, and by 2006, everybody who wasn’t living in a Neolithic hut or some place like Salt Lake City knew what ‘tea bagging’ is.”
“’Tea bag a mime?’” Hank blanched again. “Excuse me.” He made another urgent visit to the bathroom, and after about five minutes of retching sounds, followed by running water, he emerged, his expression a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension.
“Have either of you guys,” he asked tremulously, “ever… tea bagged?”
“What,” Rob laughed, “are you kidding? Why would I? And besides, Katje would probably give me a black eye just for asking.”
“Don’t look at me,” I pleaded. “The whole concept strikes me as utterly absurd. Actually, I think ‘tea bagging’ is mostly mythical, you know, like the ‘rusty trombone,’ or the ‘dirty Sanchez.’”
“What the hell,” Hank asked, “are those?”
“If you don’t know by now,” Rob advised, “don’t mess with it.”
Hank shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs. “I’ve got to get back to the conservative movement about this – it’s very important information. I mean, we can’t keep on yelling and screaming about ‘tea bagging’ anymore, that’s obvious. We’ve got to come up with another protest tactic, right away!”
“Well,” I suggested, “Lady Godiva was a tax protester, you know. Why don’t you conservatives all start holding your rallies in the nude?”
“You mean,” Hank asked, “sort of like streaking? Nah, I don’t think that would be consistent with our moral values.”
“Okay,” Rob chimed in, “how about you start erecting Liberty Poles at your rallies? That’s what the colonists did when they protested King George’s Stamp Act tax.”
Hank shuddered, shaking his head. “I don’t know. The idea of a big pole seems pretty gay, too. Not as gay as tea bagging, but still…”
“The Whiskey Rebellion,” I remarked, “was another tax protest movement. And as I recall, the Whiskey Rebels were fond of disguising themselves as women when they tarred and feathered George Washington’s tax collectors.”
“They dressed up like women?” Hank was incredulous. “No, no, no… I’m pretty sure if the conservatives did that at their anti-Obama rallies, the whole thing would get mistaken for a gay pride parade. But,” he mused, “maybe we could do something with tar and feathers.”