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A Personal Account of Irvinian Awesomeness

It's no surprise that Michael Irvin is the greatest human to ever walk the earth. So we never tire of hearing first-hand accounts of his awesomeness, whether it's slicing a teammate in the neck with scissors, or tasty nuggets from 4th and Long, like "Here comes Black Lightning through the tunnel, wearing his tight black suit again."

Occassionaly, the universe provides these through friends of friends, like Pete Gaines of Deadspin and wherever else, and it's our 7th Floorian duty to pass them along to you.  Bow before Irvin's greatness, lest his gigantic pointy collars stab you in the eye:

So yeah, 2002, I'm back in my hometown working for the [redacted]. Come that October, a HS friend (who is, mind you, a kindergarten teacher) is getting married to a [lady who does not appreciate girls faking arousal for cash] who put the kibosh on the idea of a bachelor party.

So, a week before the wedding, a bunch of us conspire to get him out to a friend's place in the Chicago burbs for a "pre-wedding cookout." The plan was to spirit him off to a strip club of some sort. Being dorky poor 22 year olds (and being [town redacted] folk, only a few of us were college grads with anything resembling living wages) we had no idea where to go.

One friend chimes in with "Hey, I heard about a new place on the radio, by O'Hare. It's called Scores and I don't think it's really fancy or expensive." So we pile into a couple cars and head off to Scores.

Our thoughts of "unfancy and inexpensive" were dashed when we pulled into the lot and saw the row of Ferraris, Lambos, etc. We park (down the street, for free) and head inside. $20+ cover charge to get in the door.

At this point it's pretty obvious we're in over our heads but dammit, we're gonna show CJ (the groom) a fancypants fun time.

Unfortunately, we had no idea that to get a table required some pre-ordered bottle service. We were in no condition to do this, so we stood along the back bar quietly sipping our cheap beers wondering what we got ourselves into. The strippers took pity on us and came and hang out with us in between rounds of the floor. It was pretty pathetic.

In the sunken booths in front of us was a large group of people carrying on.

Yep, Irvin + entourage.

We're standing there awkwardly between the bar and Irvin's booth, kind of relishing our proximity to fame, but without the balls or money to make any noise. CJ, the upstanding, straight-laced, god-fearing groom, is grumbling about Irvin's flamboyance and how he's a terrible player and a terrible person and has ruined football, etc. etc. He is drunk. He is speaking a little too loud.

Michael Irvin turns around, glares, and says..."what you say about me?"

BJ, emboldened like hasn't been before or since, says, "You heard me, I said you sucked, man. Couldn't stand you."

Yeah. Exactly. We're expecting to be thrown out or worse.

Irvin stares for a second, starts laughing his ass off, and says "Get your ass down here, man."

Has the bouncer bring BJ down into his semi-private booth.  Says, "I'll buy you a drink if you say I'm the best ever."

BJ: "NO WAY MAN, YOU SUCK!" (but in a friendly mock-outrage).

We're now all buddies for life. Irvin's got a stack of comped-drink chips that he starts handing out to all of us (we're all standing right behind his sunken booth). Irvin autographs Scores hats for all of us, covers the tab, buys lapdances for BJ, sends him to the champagne room multiple times, and is just in general the nicest, most accessible person in the place.

At the end of the night, he hugs everyone, congratulates CJ, insists on autographing a hat for his bride, and that was that.