Abu

Abu Treika is quite possibly the greatest athlete of our generation. Just ask the guys from Africa and the Middle East who somehow have time to kick back and watch the championship match of some Egyptian soccer league at a hookah bar in the middle of a Monday afternoon in our nation’s capital. Those guys are so awesome and into “the red team” that I’m almost ready to renounce allegiance to all other teams and follow the calling they broadcast so loudly, so clearly. [To the Houston Astros: I said almost, but you guys are going to have to step it up a bit, especially if I end up getting tickets to see you at Wrigley next week]. Those guys were so involved with the game that they weren’t even smoking hookah! Do we even KNOW those guys?

No, and we don’t know Egyptian soccer, either. What kind of a n00b goes to THE lounge that happens to be broadcasting the biggest game of the Egyptian soccer year and only stays ‘til halftime when the game is tied 0-0 and Abu Treika hasn’t been injured or given a red card? Apparently “the guys”, who were so mango juiced and hookah’d out that they just left without remorse when the half was called. And how easy is it to stay when you’re riding a sweet tobacco buzz and are so damn tired from the night before that each step involves conscious effort and substantial resistance from not one, but both reluctant legs?

The best part about hookah is that you can pretend to be the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Whooooo Arrre Youuuuu? (cough cough cough). It’s not that easy…that damn cat is good! Another good thing about it is that it’s just as good on a perfect sunny afternoon in a basement bar than it is on a weekend night in the hippest of hoods. The douchebags are all at work and/or school, so all you’re left with are the people who slack so well they made three of the laziest people I know (myself included), look like that same kind of ambitious douchebags (precisely those not present) who never shut up in class and would answer their own questions to impress the prof, who was well aware of their douchebaggery and usually quite content to play along only to fuck them over with grades given by an ass who doesn’t like to be kissed.

I was initially skeptical of the propriety of afternoon hookah, but also something of a philanthropist in that I wanted to provide the passengers who were to potentially occupy the cramped airline seats next to or in front of yours truly with something of a smoke-free fellow passenger. What I learned is this: the good of hookah + Egyptian soccer + Monday afternoon > the bad of fellow passenger having to maybe smell a bit of flavored smoke off your clothes. Also, you can always change your shirt. And, watching a soccer match on a station broadcast in Arabic when you have a translator capable enough let you in on the Abu Treika secret (that he kicks ass…you’re officially in on the secret), is an occurrence rarer than catching a potato-bandit red-handed and an opportunity not to be missed.

The experience lasted just the right amount of time, or so we thought (K-dawg might think it dragged on a bit too long, but he was opposed to the excursion both before and throughout)….when my phone rang on the way to the airport and I saw that this website’s namesake was calling, it was predicted that I had forgotten something and that would have been a serious bummer. Not nearly as serious as the bummer I was about to be bummed, however. Our beloved Red Team not only won the match, but did it in the most exciting way possible. They were so considerate of their fans in this DC hookah bar that they provided, free of charge, an extension of the game by tying the White Team by the end of the 2nd half. Not to outdo that generous gesture, Abu and Co. let the White Team go ahead by one! (What the fuck!? Our red team is going to lose! No! Abu!) Shit, if the guys had been watching this game live I’m sure at least two would have had to fake seizures for what was about to happen. The Red Team came back and scored TWO goals! In a soccer game! That barely happens in regulation time, let alone overtime!

And we missed it.

Now I know why Garfield hates Mondays.