“You’re doing this all wrong.” Martin put a hand on my shoulder as I frantically tried to keep up with the rapid-fire questions coming from the judge’s table.
“First you do this.” He poured yellow beer into the plastic cup in front of me. Then poured another for himself, and topped off everyone else. “Then you do this.” He raised his hand, waving it about like a kid who had to pee, and asked the judges to repeat nearly all of the questions.
Half the tables in the place gave us a death stare.
“People take it too seriously.” Said Ben, one of our other teammates. “We mainly play to annoy everyone else.”
“The only thing we really care about winning are the free pitchers from the beer rounds.” Piped up Kerry, typing away on her laptop, a flagrant violation of trivia rules.
“I’ve seen people go up there like a complainant before a judge. Argue for hours over an answer. It’s trivia in a dive bar. I’m here to kill brain cells, not stimulate them.” To make his point, Ben up-ended the last of the pitcher into his mouth, then slid it over to me.
Ah, trivia. Specifically, trivia at the P&H. One of the most bloodthirsty shows of pointless fact accumulation I’ve ever seen. Where I used to spend every Tuesday, proudly lowering the bar a few pegs on my team “We’re Not Competitive, We’re Belligerent”. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent in this story. Mainly because we weren’t.