Tonight, I figured I’d be celebrating our series against the Brew Crew in the time-honored Joe Schlombowski cheap seats way; by pouring a frosty cold Miller straight into the crapper every time we score. Then — since Joe’s Bleachers is the environmentally responsible center of the universe — flushin’ that nasty-tastin’, gut-bombin’ swill and sending it sloshing back to the brewery, where they can bottle it right back up for sale. Maybe even at Miller Park. (I flush twice, cuz it’s a helluva long way to the Miller Brewing Company.)
Unfortunately we happen to be down by 4 at the moment … which sucks. We haven’t pushed a single run across the plate, either … which also sucks. And Anderson’s got a no-hitter through 6. More sucking. Even worse (for me, anyway) … there’s an entire case of Miller contaminating my man-fridge. I was figuring on our usual 6, 7, maybe 9 runs a game. Not today. Haven’t flushed a single drop down the oval office yet, and if the Cubbies don’t get busy pretty soon, my Old Style is gonna get infused with the stink emanating from those clear bottles. C’mon, Cubs!
Enjoy the rest of the game.
The Brewers will be stinking up Wrigley starting tomorrow, my friend, which means it’s time to get ready … or, uh … get up for the game, so to speak. Now, if I was former Cubs cannon-armed, superstar-turned-jagoff Sammy Sosa, this would involve needles and some cork. But seeing as how I’m just your average fat guy from Chi-town, I got another — and I hasten to add, superior — way to make sure I’m game ready for the Brewskis on Tuesday night. That is … I plan on doing my best Joey Chestnut imitation at Hot Doug’s while jiggling both of my chins and my 6-pack* to the best food song ever. This tends to help me find my game face. Not to mention my game gut.
Then, after the missus has brought me home from the emergency room, I like to put the Laverne and Shirley intro credits on “loop” and play it over and over until it’s time to leave for the ballpark. This reinforces why I can’t friggin’ stand the Brewers (as if the fact that Bud Selig used to own them isn’t enough).
Anyway, whatever your ritual is, like stickin’ pins in a Ryan Braun doll, wearing a thong (it worked for Giambi), polishing your dog, shaving your forearms … Whatever. Just be ready. And when you’re at the yard, and you happen to bump into those morons wearing Brewers gear, remember the words of my sainted Mother: “If you can’t say anything nice, be sure and say it to a Brewers fan.”
*A true 6-pack, by the way, ain’t the kinda shaved, metrosexual 6-pack you see gawking at you through the windows at Abercrombie. It comes from actually CONSUMING vast quantities of 6-packs. Preferably of the Old Style persuasion.