It’s probably for the best that the Golden Fleece isn’t a pool table kinda place. No snide remarks about how my ring finger is surprisingly bare since we last crossed paths or that I’m already straddling the thin line between sober-and-boring and drunk-and-dancing-on-pool-tables. Luckily for me, Londoners are the sort to forgive, if not forget, a fact I’ve never been more grateful for than when Shawn, the pub’s long-time bartender, flips over a fresh pint glass, fills it to the brim with Guinness, and plunks it down in front of me with a we-knew-you’d-come-crawling-back-at-some-point gleam in his dark eyes.

No New Englander betrays the beloved Patriots like I did and lives to tell the tale. The minute I eloped with Rick, the general manager for the Pittsburgh Steelers, heads started to roll. My lack of penis being the first, and my status as a “traitor” trailing behind in a close second place. Loves me for it, even though I have two strikes against me. I don’t know, something monumental, something that carries weight and importance-something more than the truth.Īnd the truth is, us Levis are notoriously notable for only one thing: football. You know, something inspiring, like curing a rare disease or establishing a school for god-knows-what or proving, once and for all, that aliens exist and Earth isn’t the sole survivable planet. Growing up, I always pretended the honor was bestowed upon us because someone in my family did the world a good deed.

But here I am, playing with the decades-old football that the Golden Fleece keeps around for whenever a Levi enters the pub.

Leave slack jawed crossword clue