Soxtoberfest, Pt. 2

If you would have told me in March that the White Sox would be in the World Series this year, I probably would have shat on you. Seriously. I would have held you down against your will and defecated on your forehead because I would have assumed that you were playing with my emotions for your own sick, demented personal pleasure. Well I'm sorry for doing that. Last night, the Sox became the first Chicago baseball team since the 1959 Go Go Sox to advance to the World Series, ensuring the first World Series since 1987 comprised solely of teams from the Central Time Zone. How about that starting pitching? 5 games, 44 1/3 innings, 4 complete games. Are you fist fucking me? Needless to say, I'm happier than a pit bull in a room full of sleeping babies. Holla. Here are some nice pictures: Paul Konerko and Jose Contreras pretending to be falcons, and the team celebrating the end of almost a half-century of broken dreams.


The rest of the weekend was a combination of joy and pain. What else what else? Sunshine and rain. Friday night was a great time, as we went to "NaviKate" Rohrer's company's 20th anniversary party. Those who joined me at the party read like a who's who of previous GMYH posts: Jessie "Feet of Fury" LeMar, Marc "Mr. 1000" Wiescinski, John "Stop Calling Me 'Hamburger Helper'" Ashcraft, and Holt "The Phone" Hedrick, as well as two newbies at my firm, Katie "My Dog is a Bull in a China Shop" Miltner and Adam "Happy, Not" Sadlowski. Marc, John, Jessie, and I walked to the party (which was located in Dayton's historic Oregon District, or The OD, as I like to call it). On the way there, we saw a sweet mobile molestation trailer parked in downtown Dayton, with some dude wearing a black short-sleeved button-down shirt who kept asking every passerby if they wanted to meet Snuffleupagus.

Despite the appeal of Snuffy, we ventured onto the party, which had everything we could have asked for and more: free beer, free pulled pork, a band, albino pumpkins, and one of those old-school carnival games where you hit the lever at the bottom with a huge mallet and try to get the little piece of metal to go all the way up the column and ring the bell (I got it on the first try--no big deal).

But what really made it memorable is that they hired two homeless guys to fight to the death for everyone's amusement. To the winner went an albino pumpkin. To the loser went a pauper's grave and salvation from a failed life. In one corner was Emil "The Grave Digger" Winston, a shifty and wily paranoid schizophrenic who claimed to have killed over a hundred "Russian pigs in the name of Her Royal Highness Queen Victoria" in the Crimean War with his "trusty rifle and bayonet," as he looked at a rusty shovel he carried around with him. In the other corner was Albert "The Urban Sasquatch" (last name unknown), a self-proclaimed polygamist with enough track marks to make Courtney Love look like Pat Boone. The last time he shaved was during the Reagan Administration. His weapons of choice were a shank fashioned from a broken shopping cart leg and an imaginary metal flail he swung vigilantly over his head.

The fight itself was somewhat of a disappointment. After repeatedly attempting to smite Emil with his flail, Albert was surprised that none of his swings connected with Emil. His surprise soon turned to hemorrhaging, as Emil shouted, "Long live the Queen, you orthodox Russian bastard!" and connected a devastating swing of his shovel with Albert's chin, knocking Albert to the ground and knocking the shank out of his non-flail hand. Still swinging his imaginary flail as he fell to the ground, Albert tried mightily to fight off the shovel blows Emil was raining down upon Albert's unprotected head. As Albert's blood spilled onto the once-pristine sidewalk (as seen faintly in the picture to the right), Emil quietly sang to himself, "God save our gracious Queen / Long live our noble Queen / God save the Queen. / Send her victorious / Happy and glorious / Long to reign over us / God save the Queen." Once the last signs of life had left Albert's putrid body, Emil raised his arms in victory to a chorus of boos from the crowd, who had hoped for fight that would last longer than 26 seconds.

After the fight, Emil was given his albino pumpkin and Albert's body was thrown into a nearby dumpster to a chorus of cheers from onlookers. I caught up with Emil and he had this to say, "I'm humbled that Her Majesty would bestow such an honor on me [looking at the albino pumpkin] for simply defending her crown against the tyranny of Russian oppressors. He had what could have been a very deadly flail, but the Tsar's medieval weaponry is no match for the rifles of Her Royal Highness's Royal Army." He then devoured the albino pumpkin and was later seen urinating on the hood of a Mercury Topaz.

After the carnage, we went to Adam's house (conveniently located next door to the party) for a quick celebratory beer before heading to the bars. Adam's bachelorhood was confirmed by the fact that his first two purchases after he got a job were a keg-o-rator and a big screen TV. Well done. His bachelorhood was further confirmed after he served beer out of a coffee pot. Well well done.

After Adam's house, most of us went to a bar, the Oregon Express (or The OE, as I like to call it). Kate kept making the mistake of letting Marc and I take pictures with her camera. Hence, she now has about 43 pictures of various crotches on her camera. Crotch pictures aside, the highlight of the trip to The OE went down like this: We were standing in the corner of the bar, and at a nearby pub table was a woman who was drunker than the Bush Twins on Sixth Street. This girl was leaving and entering consciousness, leaning over the table, barely propped up by who we assumed was her boyfriend. Then, apparently because he could, the boyfriend pulled down the woman's pants a bit to see if she was wearing any sexy panties (or so Jessie said). This did not sit well with Jessie. Rather than yell at the guy (which wouldn't be too far out of character for Jessie), she kicked the back of his bar stool, setting off a peristaltic chain reaction that resulted in the guy bumping into his girlfriend, thereby sending this poor woman barreling to the ground like a dying oak tree. The best part is that the guy had no idea that Jessie (or anyone) kicked his stool. I think he just thought someone walking by bumped into him. As you might imagine, I've never been so proud of my wife.

After that, most of what I did for the remainder of the weekend involved watching football and baseball, sleeping, and eating. With an Astros victory tonight, I will have used every possible speck of good karma I have available. With my untimely death a near certainty, I'd like to leave you with one request: please avenge my death. Every harm visited upon me I want to be visited upon my slayer tenfold. So help me God, tenfold.