Post by $heriff Tom on Sept 6, 2006 13:09:12 GMT -5
Mutts come to the Bronx 2000 style!
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone (hey, Bald Vinny!) and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate the scalpers and imbibers. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the trussle or souffle and stained his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit on the misguided side.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see Mia innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know Mia and I are sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fucking-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My Rick Rude did not go over well this weekend - insults and debris were flying, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone (hey, Bald Vinny!) and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate the scalpers and imbibers. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the trussle or souffle and stained his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit on the misguided side.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see Mia innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know Mia and I are sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fucking-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My Rick Rude did not go over well this weekend - insults and debris were flying, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
