Are there rings around Ur anus?

Saturday night I considered not going out to the union-sponsored pub night and Doolin's Irish Pub on Granville St. In the end, I relented to my sense of duty and integrity, having told the organizers I'd definitely show up. While I can tolerate flakes, I detest the thought of being considered one, which I am generally not.

All the reasons I might have used to opt out, such as bad weather or a challenging distance, were not there so I headed out. If the pub isn't accessible I can always turn back, I reassured myself. It wasn't. There was a 5" step at the entrance without a railing to hang onto. I mused at how easily I let myself be defeated before reaching out, grabbing the door handle and struggling with my leg locked straight to pry, prop and pull myself up onto the door sill. I smiled back at the befuddled doorman before disappearing inside.

Inside, I was instantly rewarded with a kiss. Ryan, the young man who last month brushed off my friendly phone call with, "I'm wondering what it is I can do for you?", spotted my entry and came over and threw his arms around me.

"It's so good to see you," he began. "I didn't want you to think I wasn't interested in being your friend. I am really looking forward to learning stained glass from you."

"After that 'what is it I can do for you?' comment, I didn't expect to hear from you again," I replied.

"Oh no, I am sorry about that. I really mean it." He told me he had spent the day helping to set up the Irish Olympic pavilion (I never knew beer drinking was an Olympic sport) next door, that Doolin's Pub is sponsoring, and he will be working there throughout the Games. He will be far too busy to start classes for the next few weeks but later on..... He hugged me tight and planted an open mouth kiss on my lips in front of bar and then trotted back to his table.

Freshly showered with affection, I went looking for my work colleagues. I found them up a flight of three stairs on a raised section of the bar. The glow of Ryan's kiss outlasted the bristle of indignation I felt when I saw the stairs. I shrugged off my frustration and went at them with determination. Fortunately these steps had railings, which made them much easier than the outside entrance. In only a few seconds I was at the top.

I risked injury and indignation in favour of indigestion. When the free food came I wasn't disappointed: one cannot expect much from an Irish pub. "Irish nachos" were the central attraction, which are just regular nachos with potato chips being substituted for corn chips and ketchup for salsa. It came with french fries, a form of garlic bread and over-baked chicken wings. All in all, it was awful, greasy mess, but I was hungry. The evening's clincher came when the union organizer, Colby, asked why they had not delivered the onion rings she had ordered.
"Oh," said the sad-faced girly waitess, "Onion rings aren't on the menu anymore." "They were last week when I ordered them."
"We're not allowed to serve them anymore because the Olympics," she explained.
"What do you mean?" Colby stared at her in disbelief.
"We can't serve them because they are rings, like the Olympic symbol." For a minute we were sure she was joking, and we had a good laugh. But she wasn't joking, probably not even capable of joking, and we began to feel as though we had stumbled into a Monty Python skit. We grumbled, bitched and tried to reason with the staff but we didn't get our rings that night.

To date, this has to top the heap of dumb Olympic stories, one that will stand the test of time. That piece of news, and Ryan's kiss, justified my efforts that evening.