Second Effort

The sports writer delving into sports? Has to world gone haywire? No, but the ESPYs are meaningless enough to qualify for space in this blog.

I just voted for ESPN’s yearly bogus awards online, as they are being entirely decided by the fans this year, making them even more bogus than usual. Categories include X-treme athlete of the year, bowler of the year and ‘outdoor’ athlete of the year, which includes three BASS tour dudes and a chick that stands on floating logs. She got my vote.

Then there are the two or three categories that I actually find interesting. Most notably, Moment of the year, which inspired this post. Yeah, Aaron Boone’s Game 7 11th inning home run is nominated, but I didn’t even consider it. Brett Favre and Phil Mickelson are the clear-cut favorites. Mickelson winning his first major at the Masters with an 18 foot downhill putt on the 72nd hole of the most famed course and tournament in golf. And Favre’s Monday Night Football clinic right after his father’s death.

I voted for Favre out of sentiment, but I’m still not sure. On the one hand, you have a guy honoring his father’s memory with one of the greatest performances of his life in one of the most heart wrenching circumstances and sparking a VERY unlikely playoff run. On the other hand, you have guy overcoming years of undeserved bad press in the most clutch performance of his life, head to head with another great golfer (Ernie Big Nazi Els, as my dad refers to him).

I have no poignant decisive insight on the matter, but whoever loses is really getting hosed. The fact is, I watched both ‘moments’ in the making, and the thing that really made them great was not the performances themselves, but the way each guy handled themselves in the process. I am not a Packer fan, never have been never can be, but Brett Favre is fun to watch. And Mickelson shares that trait because they both look like they are having so much fun while they’re doing it.

I’ve turned on Tiger. The things he can do are amazing, but he’s such an overzealous prick on the course, he could never be what Arnold Palmer is, a fan’s hero. Honest excitement and appreciation of their good fortune to be talented and in the spotlight as one of the greatest is what makes an athlete a hero. Remember when Favre threw that first touchdown pass in the Super Bowl a few years back and ran down the field beaming to wildly greet his teammates? Remember the smile on Mickelson’s face despite the pressure as he carded a back nine 31 at Augusta, even before the final putt went down and he showed his lack of a vertical leap? Even better, remember Payne Stewart holing a putt at the U.S. Open to beat Mickelson one day before the birth of his first child a few years ago and telling him there’s nothing like the ‘moment’ you become a father.

Anyway, too bad those two had to go up against each other for the meaningless ESPY. But because I automatically disqualified the Yankee nominated moment for this year, the one mentioned in the post below gets my early support for next year’s honor. Click the “ESPertise” title of this post and and you too can vote for the best horse testosterone enhanced baseball player of the year.

Experimenting here with a link that you should all take a look at. If it’s on here twice, appologies.

The only reason I’ve had to appreciate the Yankees since Don Mattingly:

http://www.asstastic.org/blog/archives/000437.php

Speaking of dickheads, softball guy got off the hook with me yesterday with an e-mail:

SOORY FOR THE LATE NOTICE; APPRECIATE WHAT YOU DID; THANKS;

signed, dickhead softball guy.

Tonight I am planning an unprecedented county sweep of baseball and softball games. 4 towns, 5 games, me, my camera and my trusty baby blue buick century. If all goes well, I won’t have to cover any other games this week and will ingest 5 pork burgers in a little under 3 hours. Wish me luck.

This will be my third and most likely final post of the day, as the two below it were composed last night out of boredom and this one comes to you out of rage and bemusement.

A hefty 25 minutes before my deadline at the paper this morning, this unassuming prick walks into my office and says “I just wanted to drop this off so you could run it in your little sports thing.” Not that it matters, but the flyer he had in hand was for an end of the season slo-pitch softball party.

I was poised to respond with my typical ‘repeat whatever the dumbass says with a question mark on the end of it’ technique. Most people who know me are familiar with it, and I presume I’m not the only one to handle such situations in such a way. But, I thought better of it, I reigned myself in, and instead said, “When is this?” His reply of course, “This coming weekend, it has to be in the paper this week.”

Thankfully it wasn’t left to me, everyone else in the news room just laughed out loud. He seemed a little shocked by this reaction and said, “What, are you out of room?” He gave me my window to go apeshit, but still I kept myself in check. “Well, I said, I don’t know if I can get it in, but I’ll do my best for you.”

Of course, I did make space for it at the cost of what was once a very aesthetically pleasing and geometrically perfect layout. I even shrugged off his “little sports thing” comment for the time being until a coworker recommended I go flush the guy’s flyer instead of running it. They tell me this guy is renowned for his condescending attitude and is a remarkable failure of a used car salesman and husband.

I was trying to think of a way to similarly insult the guy the next time I get the chance when I realized it’s easy to insult a sports editor, but a used car salesman, that’s a fucking challenge. I just couldn’t think of a way that I could demean the jerkoff as much as he had me, so, this being my afternoon off, I’m going to buy a pound of sugar, a big gulp and a funnel and start shopping for a new Buick.

I’ll just begin this post by letting anyone interested know that I will honest to christ have to cover the sheep show at the Cedar County Fair in a couple weeks. This, of course, opens the door to all sorts of nasty innuendo and I am well prepared for it. Trey Clark had a lamb when we were in high school and despite his being a guy that could have kicked my ass anytime he wanted, I was just merciless taunting him about his love for that animal. But, if you hang out with wool-clad anything you’re beggin for trouble.

I understand there was an earthquake epicentered in Illinois and detectable right here in Iowa City two nights ago just past the 1 a.m. hour. This pisses me off endlessly. It’s like the second one in four generations and I snored through it. Had I known it was coming I would have made it a point to be having sex at the perfect instant. And I do mean instant. That is, if Barber could have gotten to Iowa City fast enough, anyway.

Immediately following the aforementioned sheep extravaganza, I will pack my bags for a family vacation with my parents and Sara. I got tired of reading about all the fun surrounding Wrigley and decided it was about goddamn time I took part in it. Many readers may be thinking… “With your parents?” To that I can only respond by saying they have far more money than we do and will afford us a vacation we couldn’t otherwise take. Also, I have a luxury of parents that are remarkably fun with which to have a drink or ten. But if you give my mom wine or lobster, she spews like an Olsen twin. I’m trying to figure the perfect way to combine this inevitability with the big ferris wheel on Navy Pier.

Posted below is the mailing address of one Trent D. Reedy who is serving in Afghanistan. I am told he needs Jack Links Original Beef Jerky, Original flavor Corn Nuts, Swisher Sweet Wood Tips and hot cocoa for his coffee. I don’t get that one. I’m not picking on the guy because he’s making a pretty big fucking sacrifice right now, but for a beggar he’s pretty specific, don’t you think? Have you ever had to ask a grocery store stooge where the jerky section is? Now I have. Don’t really think about that one too often, do you? He also goes on to say that humidors are very important as they are in the “middle of the fucking desert.” Two points I’d like to make here, if you’re smoking Swisher Sweets, you could bury them in the sand for a decade and they’re always going to taste like crotch rot, that’s their charm. Also, I’m not sending a fucking humidor to Afghanistan. I don’t even have a humidor, and I don’t think they sell them at Paul’s Discount.

Trent Reedy

D Co / TF 168

PRT: FARAH

APO AE 09355

That’s Trent for you, he knows what he wants. Right now he wants beef jerky and dead Arabs. That’s all-American.

Well, I have to say, I’m a little disappointed by the lack of comments for the movie songs post. I thought that one begged for additions from my readers, but I shall press on regardless. By the way, irregardless is not and will never be a word. Just a pet peeve of mine.

Tomorrow Sara and I head north to beautiful and historic Waterloo, Iowa’s toilet bowl, for the wedding of one Mr. Adam Small. As this is the season for such events that bar me from enjoying weekends off, I thought I would retell the story of the Loveless bachelor party of last summer. Congratulations to Kelly and Mike as they near their first anniversary and move into their new home in New Hampton.

This is a story of debauchery that has been shared on many a drunken occasion over the last year, but I thought it warranted being written and recorded for the ages. So here goes:

Alcoholics from miles around gathered at the Loveless house in La Porte City one Saturday last summer, golf clubs in tow for the be all, end all party of our young lives. We divided up into about a five-vehicle caravan that remarkably only needed one stop for more beer and bathroom on the way to Des Moines. Many attendees were blitzed by the time Dan Loveless took a wrong turn and got us all lost for 45 minutes before finding the chosen golf course.

From here on out the day was just a blur of spectacular and indefensible acts of inebriation. The golf was just a sidenote, but I seem to recall Randy Boldt cheated his way to a win with whomever he partnered and took home a fairly large sum of money, which was for the best as he would have just been mooching off the rest of us anyway.

Justin Robb stole the show while we golfed, setting the bar high for the rest of the excursion. First, after a poor shot of a tee that didn’t make it past the ladies box, Robb took the prescribed ‘dick out’ walk of humiliation a step further. He proceeded to drop his pants, tuck his junk between his legs in the ‘fruitbasket’ or RuPaul fashion, raise his arms and yell to all within earshot, “Look at my ManGyna.” Pronounced Man Ji Na.

Having completely obliterated himself by the back nine, Robb then took it to another level. After yet another poor tee shot, he jumped aboard the passenger side of his golf cart and as they approached his ball at full throttle, thought he could step off the cart and keep his footing. He, of course, slid headfirst and shirtless about 20 feet down the fairway, narrowly escaping with both nipples intact. Amazingly, they didn’t kick us off the course and we escaped with just a warning to, “Have fun, but not TOO much fun.”

The trip to the hotel was sketchy at best, but we arrived without major incident, ordered about twenty pizzas and I’m fairly confident that Dan and I paid for all of them as the rest of Loveless’ friends are a bunch of cheap fucking losers. We lounged at the pool, going through a few more cases of Bud Light and all of the pizza in short order. Robb passed out for a few hours and rousting him proved to be just one in a line of many challenges on the night.

We rid ourselves of the minors and seniors along for the trip as they went to Outback or some other skank-ass chain restaurant for dinner. The man of the hour, however, forgot to get his shit out of his father’s vehicle, and being the only drunk driver I trust besides Nate Horny Schellhorn, I had to give him a ride to the restaurant in question so he could be amply ‘pimped out’ for our night on the town. On this little trip, I saw my opportunity to privately honor Mikey and bought him a shot of Crown Royal. I don’t really think that was wise for either of us.

Soon we were all on our way to the Lumber Yard, a full nude strip club in North Des Moines. Thankfully, none of us were driving anymore, though I doubt the cabbies thought of it as a good thing. The only way they get away with full nude in Iowa is without a liquor license, so you have to bring your own beer. I’m fairly sure we entered with a quantity about equal to our own body mass.

In the door about five minutes, I just about got thrown out. As a stripper walked past Horny, she took his hat, put it on, and just kept walking. Accordingly, as she breezed past me, I yelled over the bow chica bow bow music, “Horny, that bitch took your hat.” It didn’t go over well. Next thing I know, I’m watching this ugly little stripper talk to two even uglier bouncers that made me look like a jockey pointing at me and saying, “That motherfucker, right there!” Being the negotiator that I am, I figured I would cut this off at the pass, and approached the threesome with the best intentions.

“Hey,” I said, “I didn’t meat to offend you, I was just talking to my buddy and I’m really sorry.” This to a girl wearing a G-string and nothing else. The situation was long, drawn out and not to pretty, me trying to talk my talk with roughly 47 beers and a shot of CR in my gullet. It came to screeching halt when I offered to do whatever it takes to stay here and her replying, “Fine, give me some money.” Now I honestly would have minded shelling out some cash to stay in the bar, but under these circumstances, I didn’t find it acceptable and told her so. “Fuck you,” I said, and walked away. They didn’t bother me anymore, but I was determined not to drop any more money in that house of ill repute. As I understand it, the rest of the guys in attendance made up for my tight wallet with, um, numerous private dances.

It’s at this point that I don’t remember a whole lot more about the strip club, except the girls beating the absolute shit out of Mike on stage and this one blonde with wicked thigh high white boots. She was memorable.

Four of us disenchanted with the lack of gin decided to embark on a journey of our own. Myself, Robb, Brandon Hout and Chris Miller hailed cab and went to this semi-swanky bar called Drinks where I proceeded to close the place down by dousing the men’s room in vomit. We didn’t stick around long.

Upon our return to the hotel, the rest of the group started rolling in smelling of stripper with smiles on their faces. A couple girls from the bar followed us back, and Miller ended up having to drive them to Ames or something at 4 in the morning. There were runs to Wendy’s for chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers, but most of the guys were beyond the point of balance and fell helplessly into their beds, or bathtubs, or wherever they stood.

One member of our crew, who shall remain nameless to prevent prosecution, led on this shady little gay drug dealer in the room next to his until he shared a joint at poolside. I was there for the initial sparking, but thought it best to remove myself from the situation, so I can’t really say whether or not our pal put out for the dealer or not.

I think I slept in the same bed as Howie that night, but will never know. In fact, I may very well have put out that night and wouldn’t know it. Kelly’s dad thought it a good idea to wake us all at 7 in the morning. I will never forgive him. I guess he, Mike and Mike’s dad had to get back to Cedar Falls for a meeting with the Pastor who was to perform the ceremony. I’ll never know how Mike did that. The rest of us gathered out widely dispersed belongings, drank luke-warm beers and shakily made our way back to La Porte.

Dan Loveless and I, being the experienced drinkers that we are, went to a local watering hole upon our return, watched the final round of the U.S. Open and choked down bloody marys and cheese nuggets.

As has always been my custom after a binge such as this, I returned home, threw up in the back yard, and went to sleep until Dad woke me up and told me it was time to mow the lawn.

I think it’s safe to say, it was a very good bachelor party. Anyone with a bachelor or bachelorette party memory of their own, or just a reaction to this one, post it in the comments. By the way, you don’t need to sign up for blogger to comment, just post anonymously when prompted and leave your name at the bottom of the post. Dumbasses.