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jack_babalonThe rules of Drunken Kickball are quite simple really. Like it's grade school predecessor, it is basically the 'short bus' version of baseball you knew and loathed as a kid: The wooden bats have been removed, the bone white ball that you pitch is replaced with a larger rubber ball you roll and no one is dressed up in the fetish armor of catchers mitts, face cages or chest plating. Just kick the ball, hope the other team doesn't catch it, run as many bases as you can and try not to get tagged out. Now where we stray from the more traditional rules is that every player,
without exception, must be armed with a cup of beer at all times. That means the pitcher, the kicker, everyone on the field from the basemen to the outfielders, all most have a beer in the hand or their team suffers penalties.
Got it?
Good.
Because from here on out it gets blurry.
Hour One: The rain is coming down hard. The Dildos are up first. We periodically bark 'SKULLFUCK' at the opposing team. They yell something back. We have a bunch of local film makers on our team and they're all good kickers. We end our first inning with a five nothing lead. The Poots come in next and manage to get as far as second. I down the first of my Newcastles and can smell the testosterone in the air already. We're up again. Not as many as runs as before but we bring it up 9-0. I'm working the line between 1st and 2nd, being too slow to score one of the backfield posistions. Rain waters down my Newcastle, boots soak into the mud. I'm the only guy in jeans & steel toes. I'm dressed up for a skinhead riot at the Sham 69 show and everyone else is... sporty! I hustle for the ball. The rules let you hold the cup in your mouth for the catch. I manage a few assists we're back up. Another Newcastle is needed. As is a cigarette. I have time for a few drags before i'm up at bat or 'boot' in my case. I send it driving down third and manage to get to first. I take first to second before a cluster fuck around a foul ball gets me tagged out. Patience will be as important as speed. No worries we're up 12-0. The sun starts to come out. Steam bath fresh off the grass. Crushed cans glitter in the emerging sunlight.
Hour three. I've pulled a Charlie Brown. A shitty pitch a wiser man would've ignored and I make a kick for it. I run in for it. Wind up the kick ... and i'm airborn for a split second and I crash to the earth on the flat of my back. I do manage to hold on to my beer and everyones yelling for me to run for it. I'm dumb enough to try and i'm tagged out. I limp back to the bleachers. I'm out of Newcastles and i've been drinking
red neck piss tests, or Pabs Blue Ribbons as they're called. I pour another and take a seat and another cigarette. The Dildos are holding the lead though. We're something like 21-7. But we're losing players. Some get bored. Some have to go to work. One of our best kickers takes off to drop his girl at the airport real quick. We've degenerated into open warfare on the field. The two teams splashing each other down with our beer. A pack of hitfaced monkeys screaming obscenities and fling poo basically. Kamikaze raids are enacted. The Scholar chases the Magpie around. We don face masks and brandish our real dildos at the other team menacingly. A baby doll attached to a iron rod is swung around like some medieval pole arm. There is much arguing. The beer is slowing the scoring down. Our captains argue frequently. Everybodys an Alpha Male all of a sudden, especially the women! The women remember a deeper memory, a time wmen cowered at the wrath of the child bearers and prayed to the gods to be able to satisfy these she-devils in the sack later to justify their measley exsistences. My buzz has me beaming like a searchlight. It's all good. I'm drenched in sweat and beer and rain and mud. I've caught a man out once and have assisted a few others. On top of the hill a church bus has stopped and some of the faithful stare down at us, watching the game from a safe distance. Like most Christians they hate the sin, but love to watch it indulged. Even the bible (or Milton I forget) mention that up in heaven there's a little place where the angels can watch the damned suffer in hell. Is this the ecclesiastical version of reality TV! Oh shit we're up again...
Hour Six: There's a mime on the field. That's okay he's on our side. So's the dog. The dog doesn't have a beer though, so it can only be there for moral support. The sun has gone. Night is falling. We've been at this six hours. We're like thirty something to twenty whatever. We've lost a ball. Our team has shrunk by about ten people. It's the last inning. No more beer left. We're winning. All we have to do is catch three and it's finally over. That's the only reason they have'nt found me face down in the bushes being gang raped by the local wildlife. Everythings fuzzy around the edges. My heart is pumping piss beer to the brain. My second wind has whithered down to a few farts. I should've eaten more. But I did'nt count on the game going this long. Pay attention man up! Their guy mounts the base. The Poots have made a lot of headway on us but it's over, All's too weak for brave Macbeth...' Suddenly the Poots let out a scream and charge all at once around the bases, the wrong way. I'm standing there watching them stream around me all these bellowing war faces, a viking funeral gone wrong. It's they're last hurrah! But it means it's over! We win! Everybody goes crazy. Hugs. Kisses. Ass slaps. Titty tweaks. Coolers dumped. Two of the team take our banner with the DILDOS blazed across it and run her proudly across the field. Oz & someone else have unleashed the giant penis puppet: A chinese dragon Penis that takes two to pilot. It serpentines around the bases. I collapse with a smile under the tree and smoke the last of my cigarettes. Headache symphony starting up. Should've drank more water. Finally. Game Over! My part in all this is done and I can go back to my little corner of social invisibility. I can go back to my baby and tell her I did my best to make her proud!
without exception, must be armed with a cup of beer at all times. That means the pitcher, the kicker, everyone on the field from the basemen to the outfielders, all most have a beer in the hand or their team suffers penalties.
Got it?
Good.
Because from here on out it gets blurry.
Hour One: The rain is coming down hard. The Dildos are up first. We periodically bark 'SKULLFUCK' at the opposing team. They yell something back. We have a bunch of local film makers on our team and they're all good kickers. We end our first inning with a five nothing lead. The Poots come in next and manage to get as far as second. I down the first of my Newcastles and can smell the testosterone in the air already. We're up again. Not as many as runs as before but we bring it up 9-0. I'm working the line between 1st and 2nd, being too slow to score one of the backfield posistions. Rain waters down my Newcastle, boots soak into the mud. I'm the only guy in jeans & steel toes. I'm dressed up for a skinhead riot at the Sham 69 show and everyone else is... sporty! I hustle for the ball. The rules let you hold the cup in your mouth for the catch. I manage a few assists we're back up. Another Newcastle is needed. As is a cigarette. I have time for a few drags before i'm up at bat or 'boot' in my case. I send it driving down third and manage to get to first. I take first to second before a cluster fuck around a foul ball gets me tagged out. Patience will be as important as speed. No worries we're up 12-0. The sun starts to come out. Steam bath fresh off the grass. Crushed cans glitter in the emerging sunlight.
Hour three. I've pulled a Charlie Brown. A shitty pitch a wiser man would've ignored and I make a kick for it. I run in for it. Wind up the kick ... and i'm airborn for a split second and I crash to the earth on the flat of my back. I do manage to hold on to my beer and everyones yelling for me to run for it. I'm dumb enough to try and i'm tagged out. I limp back to the bleachers. I'm out of Newcastles and i've been drinking
red neck piss tests, or Pabs Blue Ribbons as they're called. I pour another and take a seat and another cigarette. The Dildos are holding the lead though. We're something like 21-7. But we're losing players. Some get bored. Some have to go to work. One of our best kickers takes off to drop his girl at the airport real quick. We've degenerated into open warfare on the field. The two teams splashing each other down with our beer. A pack of hitfaced monkeys screaming obscenities and fling poo basically. Kamikaze raids are enacted. The Scholar chases the Magpie around. We don face masks and brandish our real dildos at the other team menacingly. A baby doll attached to a iron rod is swung around like some medieval pole arm. There is much arguing. The beer is slowing the scoring down. Our captains argue frequently. Everybodys an Alpha Male all of a sudden, especially the women! The women remember a deeper memory, a time wmen cowered at the wrath of the child bearers and prayed to the gods to be able to satisfy these she-devils in the sack later to justify their measley exsistences. My buzz has me beaming like a searchlight. It's all good. I'm drenched in sweat and beer and rain and mud. I've caught a man out once and have assisted a few others. On top of the hill a church bus has stopped and some of the faithful stare down at us, watching the game from a safe distance. Like most Christians they hate the sin, but love to watch it indulged. Even the bible (or Milton I forget) mention that up in heaven there's a little place where the angels can watch the damned suffer in hell. Is this the ecclesiastical version of reality TV! Oh shit we're up again...
Hour Six: There's a mime on the field. That's okay he's on our side. So's the dog. The dog doesn't have a beer though, so it can only be there for moral support. The sun has gone. Night is falling. We've been at this six hours. We're like thirty something to twenty whatever. We've lost a ball. Our team has shrunk by about ten people. It's the last inning. No more beer left. We're winning. All we have to do is catch three and it's finally over. That's the only reason they have'nt found me face down in the bushes being gang raped by the local wildlife. Everythings fuzzy around the edges. My heart is pumping piss beer to the brain. My second wind has whithered down to a few farts. I should've eaten more. But I did'nt count on the game going this long. Pay attention man up! Their guy mounts the base. The Poots have made a lot of headway on us but it's over, All's too weak for brave Macbeth...' Suddenly the Poots let out a scream and charge all at once around the bases, the wrong way. I'm standing there watching them stream around me all these bellowing war faces, a viking funeral gone wrong. It's they're last hurrah! But it means it's over! We win! Everybody goes crazy. Hugs. Kisses. Ass slaps. Titty tweaks. Coolers dumped. Two of the team take our banner with the DILDOS blazed across it and run her proudly across the field. Oz & someone else have unleashed the giant penis puppet: A chinese dragon Penis that takes two to pilot. It serpentines around the bases. I collapse with a smile under the tree and smoke the last of my cigarettes. Headache symphony starting up. Should've drank more water. Finally. Game Over! My part in all this is done and I can go back to my little corner of social invisibility. I can go back to my baby and tell her I did my best to make her proud!
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no subject
on 2005-08-01 09:58 pm (UTC)Next year the Poots will tie the standings once again. This has been the history. I am still in desperate need of a heating pad and some bactine spray and I still have to move my right leg with my hands to get into the car or cross my legs. Walking isn't very pretty either.
I am very happy to say that I was first blood for my team but, I kept my beer and I got the point.
I am Kali the Destroyer!!!