Sunday here in Hollywood it’s raining so relentlessly I give up at lunch time and wander over to The Liquor and Rubber Balls Sports Bar and 1-Hour Martinizing to watch the Phillies/Marlins game. Don Tequila, tending bar this afternoon, draws me a Grolsch. Have you tasted Grolsch on tap? It’s as smooth, refreshing, and savory as the poontang from the Goddess of Hops herself. Whom I know personally. Intimately.
“Hey, Squatzer,” she greets me ‘way too loudly. “Got the inside dope for us on what classy fans you got up there in the City of Bodily Harm?”
She means “Pukemon,” the South Jersey Shlub Extraordinaire who intentionally vomited on a 12 year old girl sitting in front of him at a Phillies game last Wednesday. In a town fairly characterized as the breeding ground for thuggish fans whose boorish behavior rivals that of soccer hooligans (if not terrorists), this incident singularly stands out for inspiring widespread national outrage.
Nice to see you again, too, Lu. Say – how ‘bout dem Cubbies? Soriano batting his weight yet?
“Any team can have a bad century,” she says. “But in 101 years since the Cub’s last World Series championship, there have been exactly zero cases of fans getting arrested for intentionally barfing on other fans.”
Well, we Phillies fans have strong feelings, I guess. Besides, if you’ve followed the Phillies over their 127 year history, you’ll see plenty of reasons to puke. Like the major league leading 10,000 total losses and 23 game losing streak. The mystery is why this happens as infrequently as it does.
“Ancient history, Squatzo. The Phillies are on an amazing roll — the team to beat for the last 5 years. You wanted to blow chunks at the ball park, you missed your era.”
Besides, it’s all a misunderstanding. The guy was a massage therapist. He thought they asked him to to Rolfe them. So he Rolfed them.
“If it was my kid,” chimes in Don Tequila, “that sick puppy would still be trying to pry his head out of his ass where I stuffed it. Make him spew his eyeballs into his own intestines and shit out what’s left of his brains.”
Lovely image, Don. Yo, what happened to the pretzels and hard boiled eggs on the bar? Now I’m hungry.
By the end of the afternoon, I’m the one who feels like puking. My team is shut out at home and drop the 3-game series to the Miserable Marlins– they score one run in two games and send the fans home muttering. Of course, it could have been the hard-boiled eggs (with Tabasco) and the pretzels and mustard, too. And the glorious foaming poontang of the gods.