Post by $heriff Tom on Sept 6, 2006 13:07:32 GMT -5
Alrighty, without further ado, the new Sheriff Tom column. Best served if read aloud in a crowded room. I did my best to put this together using nothing but a dull buzz from drinking until 3AM last night, and scoreboards commemerating the events down below for all eternity. Enjoy, or at least act like you do.
June 30th, 2001
Saturday the 30th of June dawned apolexically, and we stumbled into Yancey Park like the Night of the Living Deads. As I fumbled with my beer and gawked at my friend Randi in her sleevless shirt, "Mr. Make It Happen" Phil Phly came walking in with a paper bag, and I offered my beer in a toast. But - horror of horrors, with a sun beating on us to the tune of 90 degrees, he pulled out.....a soup! Damned if he didn't sit down there and start scarfing down soup. That was a worse transgression than Juniors Shaker Salad, or even I would hazard to say Joe T's infamous canned peaches.
It was Big Tone Capone's birthday, and he was appropriatly drunk and annoying to others directly upon arrival. Caustic revenge was stricken on him, though, as we sauntered into the Stadium environs and a bird swooped down to leave it's milky squirts right on the back of his shirt. Way to get crapped on on your birthday.
As ugly as Capone's shirt was with a speckle of bird poo, uglier ones abounded. I had the infamous Yankee Championship Tie-Die going, and it even made the big scoreboard screen later during my well recieved and highly invigorating Rocky dance. Someone remarked that it looked like a "Grateful Dead" shirt, to which someone else looked at me and sneered, "yeah, I would be GRATEFUL if you were DEAD."
The normal sights to behold were keeping us entertained out there in 39, including Midget Mike playing a Bat Day Bat he comandeered as the violin during our gamely orchestral manuever off playing off a feature on the scoreboard. Walkman John swung his pen around like a conductor, I energetically mimicked some strings, and Phil, no doubt hopped up on soup, simulated a cello concerto. In another corner Angry Drunken Monica was giving Cuban Monica a back and neck massage, and over to our left some goofball in an Uncle Sam hat was screaming "Box Seats Rule!!!" at us.
I mentioned in passing how some girl downstairs asked for my "John Hancock" on a giveaway bat, and Midget Mike gleefully spun around and yapped, "You said COCK." Yes, it was business as usual.
Of course, being as hot as swamp ass, we were due for the Rocky bit. It is amazing to me that I know I can not walk up the 3 flights of stairs at work, or jog more than the distance from the beer fridge to the cash register, but play that Rocky music and I am superceded into some volumnious leviathon with powers unbeheld. I must remember to buy that soundtrack next time I host a sex session in my house.
Anyway, somehow doing that I ended up hurting my SHOULDER, so much so I had trouble lifting my quarts at Jeremys, which probably explains how I left under my own accord without a 250 pound woman in tow. It was on this day where, thanks to wayward Creatures checking in from the upper deck, I found out the bit actually made the Stadium Scoreboard which is yet another reason strangers stop me outside and ask me to pose for pictures with thier sons. Oddly enough, they seem to keep the daughters well away from me.
As I slap this together, the only other scorecards I have with me now appear to be two of the Yankee Stadium affairs against those putrid Mutts. My scorecards have dissapeared this year like no other, containing all the jokes penned by the crew, the sprays of perfume by the girls, and the remnants of spill from those exotic Bald Ray and Big Don drinkage concoctions. One, and this is no joke, was found on the floor next to a girls bed. And to this point, I have no idea where the 3rd scorecard from the Mutts is, although we passed it around that game like a Washington intern through the Hallowed Congressional Halls.
Friday, July 7th
OK, apparently the 7th began with me adding to my collection of Drinking in Public Tickets, out on the roof of the parking garage made famous by meat from Blue Lou's Moms farm and a few random sexcapades over the years. A couple of Asian undercovers walked by, and a crony could not resist calling one of them Ichiro, to which they took none too kindly. Out came the badges, which sad to say carry more jurisdiction than mine. Imagine if they had called him Irabu, or added "san" to whatever name like the Asians like to do, I would have probably went to jail. Take me somewhere I haven't been, coppers! Anyway, I was so in reverence of this ticket I gave it away to the lovely Krista inside, in lieu of my boring business card.
Official police matters aside, I actually made it inside in time for the National Anthem, cheerfully referred to by Mia as "the banner song" and this one was sung bad enough for me to "give it the gong" in old game show style. A pack of F-14's proudly screamed by overhead, "on thier way to Vieques to drop bombs" I joked, getting away with it only cause the likes of Big F'N Joe Lopez and Lucy were nowhere in earshot. Soon enough, the Yankee version of Talkin' Baseball was booming through the Stadium, causing us once again to ask "what the Hell is a balliwick and what does it have to do with Roger Maris?"
The normal sprinkling of street freaks found thier way in on this Friday night, including some jerk not only wearing an Irabu Yankee shirt, but an umbrella hat. Bald Ray was standing by the rail, ogling the Friday night Skirt Squadron, and using his old "No Speak English" gag to sneak a poke and prod or two. Mortal enemies from the message board Midget Mike and Cactus James were sitting side by side, but enemies always seem to end up that way out there. Trust me, I know. The police presence was bloated, and absolutely unnecessary. Spotting a number of them crawling around on the roof rafters I mused "now we can't even go up there to drink."
For some reason the Umps were parading around in a shirt shade we just could not figure out. I will go to my grave claiming it was "canary" but arguments were made for "peach" and even "khaki" The only other Ump issue of note over the homestand was Umpire Ed Rapuano answering our heckles and taunts as he bulldogged back to track a long fly with a Degeneration X style "Suck It" crotch chop in our direction.
Being the Mutts were here, and the game had a phony lumination of importance, Bleacher Virgins were making their one-time annual pilgramage, knocking the regulars out of thier familiar environs in 39. Phil was bounced around from row to row to seat to seat so often Gang Bang took to calling him "Frogger."
I did not have enough to drink pregame, the cops saw to that and besides my boss was sitting in Section 37, and while I am not adverse to him seeing me gyrating on a bench or making puppets dance, I did not want him to see me sleeping, puking, or ducking punches from angry 20 year old women.
Considering I was sober my jokes were worse than usual. When a Go - Go's song blared through the Stadium, I bought out the old gem that the Go Go's could not have sex "cause thier lips are sealed." Since I bought jokedom back into 1983, the pack around me started throwing out Space Shuttle, Ethiopian, and even Iranian Hostage jokes.
But also being sober and totally keeping score on my own, I had as good a shot as any as scoring a game without any "MO's" - AKA Mystery Outs, or plays I missed. When I used to keep score on my own, I would average 6-8 missed plays a game, at least. One game I was awake for I had 18. Well, average that to around 60 scorecards a year for 10 bleacher years, and I missed 600 outs or so. OUTS THAT I WAS THERE FOR, which seems to be a full weeks of games. Well, anyway, I was on my way to having my FIRST EVER complete scorecard, when Black Metal Mike came over with his "pictures from Chicago." Sure enough, ogling a picture of a Bar near the Wrigley Bleachers, I missed some sort of pop-up, and that was the end of my quest.
One of the overzealous cops soon took it upon himself to enforce a "no standing" rule, which seemed to apply even between innings, costing us major flirt points with a pack of girls out there in 41. Yet this is the same cop who greeted me after the game with a handshake and a "nice job" like I did anything even remotely constructive. With that sense of tension the cops were passing on, it was only a matter of time before tempers flared, but to add comic value it was 2 Cracker Jack vendors who got into it in the ramp, in a territorial dispute. "Pee in the section!" someone yelled. "Claim your mark!" Others mused the TV possibilites were endless. "When Vendors Attack."
Besides the fact that we lost, the only other thing of note occured after the game, when Uptown Mike not only bought cherries, he did it in front of our entire pack of drunks. We did not even see him stop at the roadside stand, until Kwik howled, "Hold on! Uptown's BUYING FRUIT!!!"
JULY 8th
The next day was a Sunday, and despite our run-ins with the fuzz we decided to meet up in the garage and drink up anyway, being the game was not kicking off until 8PM. We had a nice contingent, and a nice game of stickball going on, which featured such highlights as a Knoblauch errent toss whomping an innocent in the back of the head ("you throw like the real Knoblauch" was the popular refrain) and a line drive off my stick bat that zipped by a barbecue batallion and sent people diving for cover. Tragedy ensued when some chuckleheads parked in the shadow we were calling the bathroom, and from that point on we had to make bowling alley runs just to pee.
Another interesting note from that gathering and proof that it takes all kinds when it comes to us, is that we met a porn star bought over by Comic Book Todd, who actually got his start in our favorite cinema by winning a "Smalllest Dick" contest on the Howard Stern show. Granted, he looked like he would be more comfortable in line at Burger King than in bed with a hosebag, but he regaled us with tales of who he had "dropped a load on" and we listened in glee, and hoped we can find ourselves in that same type of bedroom battlefield, armed and dangerous.
Now I may not be a porn star, although I act like and demonstrate the intricate moves of one, but I have started throwing around my "Isaac The Bartender from the Love Boat" level celebrity. At this time before heading down to the Mutt game, I was let in on a story that I did not even remember happening. At the last parking garage keg crash thrown by the staff at Jeremy's Ale House for us, I shuffled off to a quiet spot on the slab for a little downtime nap. A cop ambled over, took one look at me and decided a public intoxication ticket was in order. Gang Bang raised the hue and cry, to where the cop turned on him and scolded him with "You should never let your friend get so drunk!" To which G-Bang retorted, "What am I supposed to do, tackle him on his way to the keg??" Well, that was all for him, too, as the cop proceeded to prepare a drinking in public for him. At this point the drunken Capone hit the cop with the old, "but that is Sheriff Tom" line, which sad to say in bars only works 22% of the time with chicks, and only 6% of the time with hot ones. At this point the cop, a hefty man in his later middle aged years, stopped what he was doing, and like a kid seeing Santa in the mall gushed, "you mean the guy who does the drum?" He even did a little hip swivel. Needless to say, no tickets written for anyone, and he did not even get a hot dog for his troubles.
Well, this drinkathon on the 8th was apparently a success as I ended up keeping score for a grand total of ZERO batters, and the only joke noted on the scorecard was a reference to a sign someone held up that said "Mets in 3000!" Someone also noted the fact that I used the word "montage" in a conversation. So besides seeing a guy walking around with a Superman t-shirt, giving us an excuse to sing the Underoos song for the first time in years and argue about whose underoo image we would sport (I am partial to dressing like AquaMan) and meeting and greeting the stunning Rae, nothing of note seems to have come out of this nondescript Yankee victory.
Hey, I said "apolexically."
And now not only does a long homestand loom ahead, beckoning like the guy in the back of the porn video store waving you back to the real stuff, but the return to Toronto and 22 ounce LaBatts Blue drafts in the Skydome. Last count has well over 40 Creatures making the trek. Interspersed in all of this is a trip to Staten Island on the 24th to see a Yankee-Mutt farm squabble, and birthdays for the likes of me, Gang Bang, and Donahuge, whose birthday will revolve around a Hawaiin shirt theme. More on all of this later.
Now get out of here, read my Philly column and Vinny's take on Miami, say a prayer for the family of late Freebird Terry "Bam Bam" Gordy, and go get drunk or laid someplace.
Sheriff Tom
The One Man Conglomerate
June 30th, 2001
Saturday the 30th of June dawned apolexically, and we stumbled into Yancey Park like the Night of the Living Deads. As I fumbled with my beer and gawked at my friend Randi in her sleevless shirt, "Mr. Make It Happen" Phil Phly came walking in with a paper bag, and I offered my beer in a toast. But - horror of horrors, with a sun beating on us to the tune of 90 degrees, he pulled out.....a soup! Damned if he didn't sit down there and start scarfing down soup. That was a worse transgression than Juniors Shaker Salad, or even I would hazard to say Joe T's infamous canned peaches.
It was Big Tone Capone's birthday, and he was appropriatly drunk and annoying to others directly upon arrival. Caustic revenge was stricken on him, though, as we sauntered into the Stadium environs and a bird swooped down to leave it's milky squirts right on the back of his shirt. Way to get crapped on on your birthday.
As ugly as Capone's shirt was with a speckle of bird poo, uglier ones abounded. I had the infamous Yankee Championship Tie-Die going, and it even made the big scoreboard screen later during my well recieved and highly invigorating Rocky dance. Someone remarked that it looked like a "Grateful Dead" shirt, to which someone else looked at me and sneered, "yeah, I would be GRATEFUL if you were DEAD."
The normal sights to behold were keeping us entertained out there in 39, including Midget Mike playing a Bat Day Bat he comandeered as the violin during our gamely orchestral manuever off playing off a feature on the scoreboard. Walkman John swung his pen around like a conductor, I energetically mimicked some strings, and Phil, no doubt hopped up on soup, simulated a cello concerto. In another corner Angry Drunken Monica was giving Cuban Monica a back and neck massage, and over to our left some goofball in an Uncle Sam hat was screaming "Box Seats Rule!!!" at us.
I mentioned in passing how some girl downstairs asked for my "John Hancock" on a giveaway bat, and Midget Mike gleefully spun around and yapped, "You said COCK." Yes, it was business as usual.
Of course, being as hot as swamp ass, we were due for the Rocky bit. It is amazing to me that I know I can not walk up the 3 flights of stairs at work, or jog more than the distance from the beer fridge to the cash register, but play that Rocky music and I am superceded into some volumnious leviathon with powers unbeheld. I must remember to buy that soundtrack next time I host a sex session in my house.
Anyway, somehow doing that I ended up hurting my SHOULDER, so much so I had trouble lifting my quarts at Jeremys, which probably explains how I left under my own accord without a 250 pound woman in tow. It was on this day where, thanks to wayward Creatures checking in from the upper deck, I found out the bit actually made the Stadium Scoreboard which is yet another reason strangers stop me outside and ask me to pose for pictures with thier sons. Oddly enough, they seem to keep the daughters well away from me.
As I slap this together, the only other scorecards I have with me now appear to be two of the Yankee Stadium affairs against those putrid Mutts. My scorecards have dissapeared this year like no other, containing all the jokes penned by the crew, the sprays of perfume by the girls, and the remnants of spill from those exotic Bald Ray and Big Don drinkage concoctions. One, and this is no joke, was found on the floor next to a girls bed. And to this point, I have no idea where the 3rd scorecard from the Mutts is, although we passed it around that game like a Washington intern through the Hallowed Congressional Halls.
Friday, July 7th
OK, apparently the 7th began with me adding to my collection of Drinking in Public Tickets, out on the roof of the parking garage made famous by meat from Blue Lou's Moms farm and a few random sexcapades over the years. A couple of Asian undercovers walked by, and a crony could not resist calling one of them Ichiro, to which they took none too kindly. Out came the badges, which sad to say carry more jurisdiction than mine. Imagine if they had called him Irabu, or added "san" to whatever name like the Asians like to do, I would have probably went to jail. Take me somewhere I haven't been, coppers! Anyway, I was so in reverence of this ticket I gave it away to the lovely Krista inside, in lieu of my boring business card.
Official police matters aside, I actually made it inside in time for the National Anthem, cheerfully referred to by Mia as "the banner song" and this one was sung bad enough for me to "give it the gong" in old game show style. A pack of F-14's proudly screamed by overhead, "on thier way to Vieques to drop bombs" I joked, getting away with it only cause the likes of Big F'N Joe Lopez and Lucy were nowhere in earshot. Soon enough, the Yankee version of Talkin' Baseball was booming through the Stadium, causing us once again to ask "what the Hell is a balliwick and what does it have to do with Roger Maris?"
The normal sprinkling of street freaks found thier way in on this Friday night, including some jerk not only wearing an Irabu Yankee shirt, but an umbrella hat. Bald Ray was standing by the rail, ogling the Friday night Skirt Squadron, and using his old "No Speak English" gag to sneak a poke and prod or two. Mortal enemies from the message board Midget Mike and Cactus James were sitting side by side, but enemies always seem to end up that way out there. Trust me, I know. The police presence was bloated, and absolutely unnecessary. Spotting a number of them crawling around on the roof rafters I mused "now we can't even go up there to drink."
For some reason the Umps were parading around in a shirt shade we just could not figure out. I will go to my grave claiming it was "canary" but arguments were made for "peach" and even "khaki" The only other Ump issue of note over the homestand was Umpire Ed Rapuano answering our heckles and taunts as he bulldogged back to track a long fly with a Degeneration X style "Suck It" crotch chop in our direction.
Being the Mutts were here, and the game had a phony lumination of importance, Bleacher Virgins were making their one-time annual pilgramage, knocking the regulars out of thier familiar environs in 39. Phil was bounced around from row to row to seat to seat so often Gang Bang took to calling him "Frogger."
I did not have enough to drink pregame, the cops saw to that and besides my boss was sitting in Section 37, and while I am not adverse to him seeing me gyrating on a bench or making puppets dance, I did not want him to see me sleeping, puking, or ducking punches from angry 20 year old women.
Considering I was sober my jokes were worse than usual. When a Go - Go's song blared through the Stadium, I bought out the old gem that the Go Go's could not have sex "cause thier lips are sealed." Since I bought jokedom back into 1983, the pack around me started throwing out Space Shuttle, Ethiopian, and even Iranian Hostage jokes.
But also being sober and totally keeping score on my own, I had as good a shot as any as scoring a game without any "MO's" - AKA Mystery Outs, or plays I missed. When I used to keep score on my own, I would average 6-8 missed plays a game, at least. One game I was awake for I had 18. Well, average that to around 60 scorecards a year for 10 bleacher years, and I missed 600 outs or so. OUTS THAT I WAS THERE FOR, which seems to be a full weeks of games. Well, anyway, I was on my way to having my FIRST EVER complete scorecard, when Black Metal Mike came over with his "pictures from Chicago." Sure enough, ogling a picture of a Bar near the Wrigley Bleachers, I missed some sort of pop-up, and that was the end of my quest.
One of the overzealous cops soon took it upon himself to enforce a "no standing" rule, which seemed to apply even between innings, costing us major flirt points with a pack of girls out there in 41. Yet this is the same cop who greeted me after the game with a handshake and a "nice job" like I did anything even remotely constructive. With that sense of tension the cops were passing on, it was only a matter of time before tempers flared, but to add comic value it was 2 Cracker Jack vendors who got into it in the ramp, in a territorial dispute. "Pee in the section!" someone yelled. "Claim your mark!" Others mused the TV possibilites were endless. "When Vendors Attack."
Besides the fact that we lost, the only other thing of note occured after the game, when Uptown Mike not only bought cherries, he did it in front of our entire pack of drunks. We did not even see him stop at the roadside stand, until Kwik howled, "Hold on! Uptown's BUYING FRUIT!!!"
JULY 8th
The next day was a Sunday, and despite our run-ins with the fuzz we decided to meet up in the garage and drink up anyway, being the game was not kicking off until 8PM. We had a nice contingent, and a nice game of stickball going on, which featured such highlights as a Knoblauch errent toss whomping an innocent in the back of the head ("you throw like the real Knoblauch" was the popular refrain) and a line drive off my stick bat that zipped by a barbecue batallion and sent people diving for cover. Tragedy ensued when some chuckleheads parked in the shadow we were calling the bathroom, and from that point on we had to make bowling alley runs just to pee.
Another interesting note from that gathering and proof that it takes all kinds when it comes to us, is that we met a porn star bought over by Comic Book Todd, who actually got his start in our favorite cinema by winning a "Smalllest Dick" contest on the Howard Stern show. Granted, he looked like he would be more comfortable in line at Burger King than in bed with a hosebag, but he regaled us with tales of who he had "dropped a load on" and we listened in glee, and hoped we can find ourselves in that same type of bedroom battlefield, armed and dangerous.
Now I may not be a porn star, although I act like and demonstrate the intricate moves of one, but I have started throwing around my "Isaac The Bartender from the Love Boat" level celebrity. At this time before heading down to the Mutt game, I was let in on a story that I did not even remember happening. At the last parking garage keg crash thrown by the staff at Jeremy's Ale House for us, I shuffled off to a quiet spot on the slab for a little downtime nap. A cop ambled over, took one look at me and decided a public intoxication ticket was in order. Gang Bang raised the hue and cry, to where the cop turned on him and scolded him with "You should never let your friend get so drunk!" To which G-Bang retorted, "What am I supposed to do, tackle him on his way to the keg??" Well, that was all for him, too, as the cop proceeded to prepare a drinking in public for him. At this point the drunken Capone hit the cop with the old, "but that is Sheriff Tom" line, which sad to say in bars only works 22% of the time with chicks, and only 6% of the time with hot ones. At this point the cop, a hefty man in his later middle aged years, stopped what he was doing, and like a kid seeing Santa in the mall gushed, "you mean the guy who does the drum?" He even did a little hip swivel. Needless to say, no tickets written for anyone, and he did not even get a hot dog for his troubles.
Well, this drinkathon on the 8th was apparently a success as I ended up keeping score for a grand total of ZERO batters, and the only joke noted on the scorecard was a reference to a sign someone held up that said "Mets in 3000!" Someone also noted the fact that I used the word "montage" in a conversation. So besides seeing a guy walking around with a Superman t-shirt, giving us an excuse to sing the Underoos song for the first time in years and argue about whose underoo image we would sport (I am partial to dressing like AquaMan) and meeting and greeting the stunning Rae, nothing of note seems to have come out of this nondescript Yankee victory.
Hey, I said "apolexically."
And now not only does a long homestand loom ahead, beckoning like the guy in the back of the porn video store waving you back to the real stuff, but the return to Toronto and 22 ounce LaBatts Blue drafts in the Skydome. Last count has well over 40 Creatures making the trek. Interspersed in all of this is a trip to Staten Island on the 24th to see a Yankee-Mutt farm squabble, and birthdays for the likes of me, Gang Bang, and Donahuge, whose birthday will revolve around a Hawaiin shirt theme. More on all of this later.
Now get out of here, read my Philly column and Vinny's take on Miami, say a prayer for the family of late Freebird Terry "Bam Bam" Gordy, and go get drunk or laid someplace.
Sheriff Tom
The One Man Conglomerate
