Whaevah, guy.

I live in Texas now, have for six years. It's easy to forget how frickin awesome a Worcester accent is, guy.

Let me school ya if you don't get it. Worcester, (pronounced Wuh-stah) is a city about 45 minutes west of Boston and has a slightly different affliction accompanied by a particular mannerism. Think Good Will Hunting meets a six-pack of Natty Light and a rowdy Pats fan.

I associate this little walk down Shrewsbury Street memory lane with some good times. About a minute after they got married, Aimee and Joey graciously allowed me to live with them in their home near Worcester like a displaced foster child. We all just graduated college together, and to repay them I helped them paint and drink their beer.

Joey taught me all about Dr. Dre and the Beastie Boys, and I listened to them-on cassette-in my mint green '87 Olds Cutless Ciera. Aim showed me how to clip coupons for the Big Y and how not to cook like a college student. We were like a mini-family, and they let me hang out with all their hometown buddies.

One day, Aim brought me to see Joey in his softball league. I was probably wearing stonewashed jeans and a Champion sweatshirt it was so long ago. Anyways, we're hanging by the chain-link fence in the middle of this grimy city at a small park and-hand to God-someone yells,

"Hey guy, ah bet you a handle of Captain Moh-gins you can't hit one frickin pitch, guy."
And someone answered, "Whatevah, guy, you can't even hold a frickin bat without puttin down yoah frickin beah. Frickin homo."

I miss berating your close friends with every disparaging comment you can arrange into a single phrase. In Texas, the conversing would have gone as follows:

"Hey, good luck! You're doing well."
"Thanks, you too."

Just leaves something to be desired. So for all yous back home tailgating a Pats game or kicking the living crap out of your piece of s**t snowblower this winter so you can get a beah at The Dive, I'm thinkin of ya. You frickin loosah.