Bawitdaba Da Bang A Dang Diggy Diggy!

The Reagan legacy at a bar

So we went to Paul's, where the bar was sticky, the people looked bruised, and we were chased out before we'd even ordered a drink by that "Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy" song. Apparently, this is Kid Rock? And apparently, this is horrible?

We went back to O'Hara's, where the night before they'd had "Angie" on the box and no wait for a pool table. It was better, certainly—until about 15 minutes later when the strains of something familiar began. Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy/Bawitdaba da bang a dang diggy diggy! How nice.

We fled.

Nightcap at the Quill? Okay! There, we met a sweet kid who, eight drinks in, was feeling a touch sorry for himself. "I'm 25, and I'm still in college," he was moaning.

"That's fine!" I assured him. "You weren't fucking off for four years; you were in the Navy, having experiences and seeing the world! So what if you're still in school?" I complimented him on his choice of major, too. "Engineering was a smart pick!" I said enthusiastically. He continued, and I continued bolstering him despite his mopiness. But when he whined—actually whined!—"I'm in school, and I have to work. And I can't live at home!" well, I just about puked. It was the return of the Poor Me White Male.

Another Reagan legacy for the ages.

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