Damn! We were supposed to meet at the Liquor and Rubber Balls Sports Emporium and Discount Income Tax Preparation Services on Sunday night to watch the Eagles/Vikings game, but the totally dickless corporate faggots who run the NFL postponed the game at 3 PM because an inch or two of snow was scheduled to fall by 8:30. Well, excuuuuuuuuse me. That’s not the way legendary Eagle Chuck Bednarik would have wanted it (see photo!).
That leaves me, former sportswriter Lu Senz, professional gambler Duck Diamonds, and Don Tequila (tending bar tonight) with nothing to do but drink and insult one another. Well, what else is new. A splendid time is guaranteed for all.
But thank god for New York Jets coach Rex Ryan, his lovely ten-toed wife, and their foot fetish. “Look at this shit,” says Duck, drawing our (blurred) attention to a newspaper:
I don’t know exactly where that morality line is drawn and I haven’t the credentials to draw it. But I know, if the allegations are true, trading one’s wife in group sex is way, way, way over that line.
That is aberrant. That is a betrayal of vows. It is a departure from God’s supernatural plan for natural man.
Anyone who defends or rationalizes the behavior probably can defend and rationalize anything. They can give a pass to any departure from normalcy. They can keep a straight face while requesting privacy over scandals posted on the Internet. – Armando Salguero, in the Miami Hurled
Lu Senz waves a dismissive paw. “Salguero’s role at the Herald is to continue the tradition of handing morons with nothing to say column space to write poorly about shit they know nothing about,” she says. “The Herald’s national reputation is safe within his hairy hands.”
Duck laughs loudly. “Amen,” he appends. “But give the little fuck credit: he had to get under the bar that Edwin Pope set. Nobody in the country was a worse columnist or sports editor than Ed Pope. A drooling, classless idiot with absolutely no insight into the world of sports other than the bullshit of third-world Miami college crap.”
“Well, look,” says Lu. “The only thing you want to hear about less than a sportswriter’s take on god and morality is an athlete’s. They’re certifiable idiots.
“But here’s this child scribbler making statements about the Jets’ head coach. Mister Morality. Yeah, he got caught doing something embarrassing. A fucking foot fetish? Christ in Nikes, how does he let this happen? And what a loser – he gets caught in a sex scandal with his own wife!”
Whoa. New meaning to “the digital age.”
“But still – look at this crap – ‘God’s supernatural plan.’ – The hell? Father Salguero declares this from his pigskin pulpit? So the guy and his kinky wife are having a tw3isted old time. Why is this a morality play? And what business is it of his, or the sport page? We used to have a saying in this biz—Shut up and play!”
“Even Clinton beats him on style points,” declares Duck. “Which reminds me of a joke: What do you call the eight days before Christmas when a Jewish wife gives her husband daily head?
“Fantasy?” guesses Don Tequila.
“No. Hannukah Lewinsky.”
Great god. Are you sure there’s no game tonight?
“No game,” says Duck. “Snowed the fuck out, thanks to a huge winter storm covering the mid-Atlantic and New England.” He looks my way. “Go home and fuck your wife before Rex Ryan does. Does she have nice feet? Does she wear as many rings as you do?”
Not on her toes, Duck.
“I don’t wanna know. Have a good time. Come back Tuesday when they play this game.”
Whatever. I’m in no hurry. Guido’s under the weather, and already in bed, Outside it’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra. I’m not working – maybe I’ll sit at this bar until Tuesday, living on beer nuts and Guinness like I did in graduate school.
Yeah, right. And maybe I’ll call out Chuck Bednarik.