A handful of former Cleveland Browns coaches hosted a “fired NFL party” at a local restaurant in Indianapolis during the NFL Scouting Combine.

According to ESPN’s Jeremy Fowler, it was a small gathering involving mostly former Browns staffers.

“Best story I heard from NFL combine,” he tweeted. “A small group of former Browns coaches held a fired Browns coaches party at a local restaurant in Indianapolis.”

Best story I heard from NFL combine: A small group of former Browns coaches held a fired Browns coaches party at a local restaurant in Indianapolis.

— Jeremy Fowler (@JFowlerESPN) March 7, 2018

This is downright glorious. Does it really get any better than a gaggle of sorry former Cleveland coaches drowning their sorrows in a bunch of daiquiris? Don’t answer that question.

Realistically though, the image of this situation is weirdly pleasing to the human brain. You walk into an Outback Steakhouse with your wife. It’s Saturday and you’ve hired a sitter — a little couple’s night out.

And there in back of the restaurant is a small gathering in a private room. Couldn’t be more than 15 people. You notice they’re all in orange and brown. “That’s weird,” you think to yourself. What a gross color combination. But you don’t give it a second thought because you really struggled in middle school art class and you’re not too familiar with your complimentary colors.

But by the time you and your wife’s entree has arrived, you notice things are riling up back there. Your wife’s tired and this is the third time you’ve taken her to Outback this month. She’s clearly bored. You drift off and look over at that private room. “My word,” you say. Those guys are partying.

So you excuse yourself from the table for a bathroom break and wander closer to the party room. They are shaking down. You knew it. But wait…is that Romeo Crennel? It is! Right there with Pat Shurmur. Trading stories like old war buddies. The more you look around, you notice these are all a bunch of old Browns coaches. Having themselves a time, tossing back pitchers of margaritas. Those wily dogs, you think. And suddenly, you wish you’d been a fired Browns coach instead of a third rate accountant outside of Indy.

Oh well. Hindsight is 20/20. So you drift back to your table with your haggard wife and order a pitcher of margaritas for yourself.

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