There we were enjoying a few pints of Summit Pilsner at Sakura when we saw him. "Hey, is that...?" A quick doubletake confirmed it. Yes. There he was. The man, the myth, the shameless whore of an alleged man: Bill O'Reilly.
The gangly rooster strutted down 4th Street, flanked by what appeared to be two Agent Smiths. He exuded the kind of twisted, slinking arrogance that comes with years swindling millions upon millions of doughy housewives and humpbacked halfwits.
We abandoned our beer and bolted for the door fully intent on challenging Mr. O to a no-holds-barred thumb war. He had a solid block lead, and we were consequently unable to catch up before he was swallowed by what could most politely be described as his entourage. Not knowing what to do, we drunkenly snapped photos for some reason.
Admittedly, the photo quality is about as distorted as the man's sense of decency. But here they are:
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