The best laid plans to get laid

The NFL Combine was in town this weekend.

For die-hard football fans, the Combine is a chance to get the scoop on new talent, see which teams are looking for what, and probably a bunch of other shit I don't really care about.

For myself and hundreds, nay, thousands of thirsty women, it means the streets of downtown are crawling with men with big fat expense accounts.

Frankly, I consider it nothing more than Hoosier Hospitality to extend a warm welcome to visitors to our city. Especially tall, athletic male visitors who may or may not have access to Colts tickets when their team plays here.

Thursday night, it was a guy from Minneapolis who got my number and said he'd call Friday. He didn't. No matter. Friday night the bars downtown were absolutely packed with eye candy the likes of which I've never seen.

CK and I hit a trendy nightspot, the kind I generally avoid because I end up drinking vodka, which is not my friend. The last time I went to this place I woke up the next morning naked on the floor of the Westin. I took the Walk of Shame through downtown, which was packed with clean-scrubbed families in town for the state high school basketball championships, all looking at me like I was a living, breathing cautionary tale for their youngsters.

But I digress. Not long after the Nike guy brought a bottle of Grey Goose to the table, I went looking for Gunther, a hulking linebacker of a guy who works for some sports-related company in Chicago. Things were going well for a while, and then not long before closing time, the conversation deteriorated. And I realized, "Wait a minute. These guys, expense accounts or not, are still dumb jocks. So much so, that I can't even make it to the next morning without realizing what idiots they are, even after 6 vodka tonics."

To hell with the Combine, anyway. That's just tragic.