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jack_babalonThere are hundreds of ways to spend a rain drenched Saturday, and I know a good 283 of them off hand, but I'm here to tell you that not a one of them combined could hope to match the pure unbridled sense of red blooded shit talkin' beer guzzlin' & ass whoopin' Americana that is the game & art of Drunken Kickball!!!
I was drafted into what would soon be described as 'open warfare' three hours before it began with the woman shaking me awake with a cellphone in her hand. It was the Big Guy. He wanted to know if I wanted to still play Drunken Kickball this afternoon!
"Wha'tha'fuk'sa'drunkinkikball?" I asked hiding under the covers. Refusing to believe this is how my day was starting.
"You know 'Drunken Kickball'I told you about it last night!"
The hell he did! The fiend was obviously lying. Or, on closer inspection, I had too much fun last night and had simply forgotten. Either way it was clear that my best bet was to play along, go with the current, lay low, deny everything until some caffenine could be shed on the matter. I got in touch with the Scholar. His story matched the Big Guy's. I apparently agreed to it sometime last night. I had twenty minutes to get ready and he would pick me up.
I was a Dildo. I could've been a Poot but I was hanging with Dildo's and found it best to play along before one of these adrenalin junkies caught wind that I had no idea what was going on and would devour me right there on the spot, perhaps as some form of pregame ritual to win favor on the field from their filthy pagan Gods, perhaps just for shits & giggles! Who knows? Maybe I was just being paranoid! I had no time to work it out, we were there already. Grant Park. Right down the field, assmebled around the two sets of bleachers and ammo depots of coolers, the two teams were forming up. The Poots wore black t-shirts. Dildos got red. A beligerant checkerboard. Two bohemian tribes that could'nt decide on whether it was a war party or a cocktail party yet. 'Lord of Flys' with the kids replaced by actors, slackers, directors, writers & their various hanger oners. Me? I was an embedded sports reporter, and I'd like to think one of the first of my kind. There was no turning back now. I had shrugged myself into this. I stripped off my shirt and traded it for a red one. From here on out I was a Dildo and had better play like one too!
I was drafted into what would soon be described as 'open warfare' three hours before it began with the woman shaking me awake with a cellphone in her hand. It was the Big Guy. He wanted to know if I wanted to still play Drunken Kickball this afternoon!
"Wha'tha'fuk'sa'drunkinkikball?" I asked hiding under the covers. Refusing to believe this is how my day was starting.
"You know 'Drunken Kickball'I told you about it last night!"
The hell he did! The fiend was obviously lying. Or, on closer inspection, I had too much fun last night and had simply forgotten. Either way it was clear that my best bet was to play along, go with the current, lay low, deny everything until some caffenine could be shed on the matter. I got in touch with the Scholar. His story matched the Big Guy's. I apparently agreed to it sometime last night. I had twenty minutes to get ready and he would pick me up.
I was a Dildo. I could've been a Poot but I was hanging with Dildo's and found it best to play along before one of these adrenalin junkies caught wind that I had no idea what was going on and would devour me right there on the spot, perhaps as some form of pregame ritual to win favor on the field from their filthy pagan Gods, perhaps just for shits & giggles! Who knows? Maybe I was just being paranoid! I had no time to work it out, we were there already. Grant Park. Right down the field, assmebled around the two sets of bleachers and ammo depots of coolers, the two teams were forming up. The Poots wore black t-shirts. Dildos got red. A beligerant checkerboard. Two bohemian tribes that could'nt decide on whether it was a war party or a cocktail party yet. 'Lord of Flys' with the kids replaced by actors, slackers, directors, writers & their various hanger oners. Me? I was an embedded sports reporter, and I'd like to think one of the first of my kind. There was no turning back now. I had shrugged myself into this. I stripped off my shirt and traded it for a red one. From here on out I was a Dildo and had better play like one too!