Posts Tagged ‘chicago cubs’

The Emperor’s New Clothes or F#ck the Cubs

October 28, 2016

Gil and Gail packed up their deviled eggs and New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc that they bought while in New Zealand and headed over to their friends Tom and Tam. It was a beautiful fall night more like summer than fall with a full moon. The event was a baseball game between the Los Angeles Dodgers and the Chicago Cubs. Tom, a huge Cubs fan, set up a television outside in front of a fire pit and a trampoline off in the distance.
Gil was born and raised in Los Angeles and was a life long Dodgers fan stranded in the midwest. He walked past a teacher’s union lawn sign and three different lawn signs for Hillary Clinton and a giant blue W painted on a plain white background to signify a win for the Chicago Cubs on the way to Tom and Gail’s backyard. Gail and Tam really liked one another. They met at a Pilates class and became great friends. They watched the Kardashians together at different homes and texted about it at night. Their sons played youth hockey together and Gil was the hockey coach. Gil was quiet owner of an ice hockey pro shop who played hockey, sold hockey and played hockey four to five days a week. Gil and Tammy’s son was thin and good-looking, fast and capable at being a scoring threat at every game. Tom and Tam’s son had man boobs and hips wider than his shoulders. The bookish son of Tom and Tam was slow and had a weak shot. Gil took their son as a favor to his wife who really wanted a friend up in the stands to sit with at games. Tom was jealous that Gil was in good shape and was a good skater and coach. Tom couldn’t skate but was wealthy and had season tickets to all Cubs and Chicago Blackhawks games. Tom was a partner at a law firm and drove a Range Rover and a Corvette with personalized Cubs and Blackhawks Illinois license plates. One license said PWR PLAY 69 and the other said LUV CUB 69. Gil had no hair, was built and had a half missing tooth much like the hockey great Alex Ovechkin and a face full of scars from years of playing ice hockey without facial protection. Gil refused to wear a cage or a half shield while playing and looked like a rough neck. Tom wore black horned rimmed glasses and had looked like an LL Bean model in front of his $5000.00 built in backyard grill, 50 inch television exclusively for the backyard and excellent sound system. A band from the 1980’s called Haircut 100 blared through the speakers while the ball teams silently  took batting practice. Gil stood with a bowl of deviled eggs in a LA Dodgers hat and shirt. Tom wore a Cubs hat with a T-shirt that had a large W on it. He was cooking filet mignon, he offered Gil a beer. Gil declined as he was gluten-free. It irritated Gil when Tom would offer him a beer. Even though Gil had declined dozens of times, Tom would still offer a beer to Gil. Gil had Ceiliaks disease which prevented him from processing gluten properly.
“Tam remembered and purchased a gluten-free, lesbian safe beer for you from Trader Joe’s… You can be like every other man around this town watching this game tonight and start the night properly with a beer.”
Gil opened the beer, tapped it against the bottle Tom was holding and talked about their son’s hockey team. Gil was careful not to say too much and let Tom comment on the high and low points of the season.
“The goalie is brutal… It is truly a testament to your defense that we’ve been in every game. Do you put your best skaters on defense always?”
Gil took a drink of his beer and pondered the best answer to a question he didn’t care to answer truthfully. Gil felt that it was a good idea to be as cryptic as possible with parents when it came to playing time, position and lines. Gil played Tom and Tam’s son on the first line even though he was a slow, tentative, ineffective player. It was a political move to appease his wife who was considering her friend’s feelings.
“I try to find a balance…”
“That is a beautifully scripted answer, coach. People try to figure out where you’re coming from. They want to know if there is something deeper to your tactics. I think mystery comes off as deep but I think I have you figured out, coach…”
“Tommy… This is a night all about baseball. I’m ready to take the night off of hockey. A full moon, great fucking weather, good food, booze and the Dodgers poised to make a California boy proud…”
Beer turned to scotch and then to wine. Bottles and bottles. Blue cheese on choice steaks with gluten-free pasta. It was a night to remember. A clear, full moon and August like weather in October. The game turned ugly for Gil. The Dodgers tanked and were getting crushed by the Cubs. It was a debacle not unlike when Gil was young and the Dodgers would lose every year to the Yankees. It might have been a moment of hurt pride that caused Gil to change from a good-natured fan to a critical observer of the type of man he disdained- bragging, rich, unathletic, pudgy Chicago fan. The Dodgers were losing by a touch down when Tom lit a cigar and laughed at the score between innings. Gil told Gail that he wanted to leave. she was having a great time without having to watch her children and she did not want to cut the night short and return home yet. The game ended with a huge Cubs win. Tam put on a song that harkened back to Burt Bacharach buy a band called Cousteau. No relation to Jacques called, The Last Good Day of the Year.
There’s something there
Among the fallen fruit and flowers, won’t rest
Only minutes, only hours unless
Now the morning breaks in showers, I guess
We’ll remember this all of our lives
On the last good day of the year
Gil sat and looked at the full moon as a gentle breeze blew through the leaves in the trees that were ready to turn colors and fall. Tom was going on and on about the Cubs and then switched to politics. After a beer, a scotch and many glasses of wine, Gil was ready to speak freely, uninhibited or reserved. Tom was taken by surprise.
“Fuck you. Fuck the Cubs, fuck unions, fuck Hillary and fat kids who really don’t want to play ice hockey… Enjoy your win you fucking pompous asshole. I hope Hillary gets the same fucking treatment Nixon got for the minor shit he did compared to that cunt.”
Gil knew that his wife hated the word cunt and that most women had a thing against the word. Both Tam and Gail gasped and tried to get Gil to calm down. It only made him angrier.
“You want to let all the Mexicans in? All the Syrians? Every fucking moderate who makes their wife cover their whole fucking face like a goddamn Ninja? Fuck you and your W shirt and Hillary lawn sign… Your kid is going to wind up with heart disease by high school if you don’t discover the word no. No you can’t eat whatever you want and drink sugary bullshit. Your son has bitch tits… I know that might be harsh to hear but you can thank the Cubs and Hillary. Bitch fucking tits on a 10-year-old and why? Because you can’t say no to him? You wanna know why my kid is fast? Because he eats yogurt instead of gummy worms and fucking Doritos…”
” I think you’re angry Tom…”
“Yes, I am. When unathletic fucks like you gloat, I get mad. You don’t know dick about how to really win and it falls into your lap tonight and you’re like a fucking scientist about baseball. Yes… The fast capable kids play defense on my teams and really I believe your son would be happier with a hot dog and a drink up in the stands next to you than forechecking. You got season tickets and you want your little son of sam to play like Kane or Toews.”
Gail came up and hugged Gil and put her hand over his mouth. Gil pushed Gail away in a way that let her know that he was not done. Tom had enough drinks to stand up to Gil and he did.
“You’re mad that the Dodgers lost and that Trump is about to go down in flames. Too many people do not buy into the Hitleresque bullshit spewed by Trump. Mexicans are the paste that holds this country together. Who is going to do the shit they do for the money they make? Big strong, stupid, flag waving, tear-in-the-eye patriot who hates anything not white. You’re the big hockey coach but you weren’t quite good enough to make it so what do you do? You coach.”
Gil took a step towards Tom with the thought to give Tom a smack. Tom sneered and raised his chin as if to say, “smack me! I don’t give a shit.”
“You know something, fuckface? I won’t ever apologize for being white. I won’t ever apologize for not blindly trusting people who hate me. Vote for whoever you fucking want. Why do we all got to know who it is? Why not put up a lawn sign that says you need a little blue pill and porn to make it with your old lady? You know what? All I need is a little text telling me to get home fast and my dick hurts to be cramped up in my jeans knowing that it’s going between my old lady’s legs just as soon as possible. You like baseball analogies? I’m the fucking closer who doesn’t need a warm up pitch. Put me in cold and I’ll finish the game…”
The women left the two men alone who were about to come to blows. Tom was about to rebut Gil when the women put on a song from the 1980’s from their youth. It was a Sinead O’Connor song called The Emperor’s New Clothes. In the light of the moon, the two men watched their rather fit middle-aged wives sing and bounce on the trampoline naked slathered in coconut oil. The oil glistened off of their breasts. The men stopped fighting and looked on at their wives without saying a word. Tom poured a glass of wine for himself and Gil. The men stripped down to nothing and joined the ladies on the trampoline on probably the last good day of the year. The song played on repeat while they made love or something resembling love beside one another.
Everyone can see what’s going on
They laugh `cause they know they’re untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong
Whatever it may bring
I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don’t think so
You asked for the truth and I told you
Through their own words
They will be exposed
They’ve got a severe case of
The emperor’s new clothes

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Hey Mickey!

May 5, 2012

“Look at fucking Bernice. You’re a fucking wizard at video games, aren’t you, Bernice?”
Mickey stood next to Bernie as he played a video game and nervously stared straight ahead at the screen. One of the rockets got hit by fire and ended the game. Bernie and his friend Saul tried to step away from the group that surrounded them but was unable to move. Judas Priest blared through out the game room, which was full of teenage boys playing video games. Mickey flicked Bernie behind the ear and then poked the Chicago Cubs logo on his baseball shirt.
“Bernice… It’s fucking winter. Don’t wear fucking white painter’s pants and a Cubs shirt when it’s snowing outside. You know what? You and your fucking girlfriend come outside for a moment.”
“We’re not leaving, Mickey,” said Bernie.
Martha, who was hanging on Mickey’s shoulder, laughed and weakly tried to persuade Mickey to just leave the two smaller boys alone. She was enjoying the hazing. Bullying is always a bit more funny when one is high and in a group of three or more. Mickey and Martha were there with two friends Mathew and Mark. In fact Mathew and Mark were sort of disciples of Mickey. Mickey was the captain of the hockey team and his father was the coach. Mickey’s father had a job lined up for Mickey, driving a beer truck just as soon as he graduated from high school.
Mickey, Martha and the disciples had just come from Mark’s basement where they took turns toking on a bong, listening to Rush. They all became famished and went to eat hot dogs and cheese fries at a Greek fast food restaurant. Mickey noticed Bernie and Saul through the window of the game room next door and decided that they would torment the two Jewish boys because they were Jewish, nerdy, small, timid and rich.
“Them fucking Jews run the world. It’s a conspiracy. You show me one poor Jew. Bankers, lawyers, doctors, jewelers. The name Jew is in Jewelry. The old Jew who owns the liquor distribution company my old man works for, never leaves Miami. He gets a big fat check each month and guys like my old man, run around making him rich.”
Mickey heard his father’s anti-Semitic rants over the years from his recliner, wearing a tank top, holding a beer after work from the time he could retain what he was hearing until he grew up and moved out of the house. Mickey grew up believing kids like Bernie and Saul were privileged and for that reason, teasing, bullying and terrorizing Jewish kids, was warranted.
“You two kikes strip down to your fucking underwear. Leave that Cubs shirt over here next to those pants and you two Woody Allen looking motherfuckers… Now get the fuck out of my site or I’ll tell the Nazis you were here.”
Bernie and Saul stripped down to their underwear and ran across the parking lot in their boots and white underwear and disappeared into the night. Mickey went back to Martha’s house and had sex with her three times after getting high again while her parents obliviously slept. Life in 1982 was great for Mickey and Martha.

Oh, Mickey, what a pity You don’t understand You take me by the heart When you take me by the hand Oh, Mickey, you’re so pretty Can’t you understand It’s guys like you, Mickey Oh, what you do, Mickey, do, Mickey Don’t break my heart, Mickey
Hey, Mickey

Bernard showed up at the door of a dilapidated home with weeds knee high in the front yard. He pounded loudly on the door of the home with his bodyguard standing beside him. Mickey answered the door in a stained white T-shirt that read Pabst Blue Ribbon. He came to the door in a pair of underwear with rust stains near the side to where his cock pulled towards. Mickey strained to adjust his eyes to the sunlight as he looked at two unfamiliar men who stood with suits on at the front steps.
“Hiya, Mick… you mind if I come in? You really shouldn’t mind because I just purchased this fucking palace for back taxes. It’s my home now and you and your family are now squatters.”
Mickey, who had been hounded by creditors regularly, tried to slam the door on Bernard and his large bald man. Bernard’s bodyguard stopped the door from closing. The two men forced their way into the living room and sat down on the couch.
“Let see, Mick. You got laid off as an assistant deliveryman due to the fact that you lost your license for drunk driving, correct? Look at this fucking hillbilly palace… you probably got live coons living under the couches here, feeding on pizza crust that fell between the cushions. Let me guess… You married the beautiful Martha and spawned these inbred looking monsters I see wandering from room to room here. They’re probably smoking your weed and watching goats fuck blond chicks on the internet while jacking off while you catch up on sleep on this here couch that smells like something the cat wouldn’t dare piss on. It has been many years, Mick. I’m in the driver’s seat now, you pathetic piece of shit… You probably never knew this back in high school but karma has no expiration date. Now, I need to know when you’re moving or paying me rent. I don’t care if you don’t have a job. I own a Subway franchise. You will work arm and arm with the Indians I have making more sandwiches in a day than you could shake a fucking stick at… Practice asking if they want mustard on their sandwich. You will fucking pay me rent or my associate here who is a war criminal from the Yugoslav War, will make your life less worth living than it currently is. Now, if you decide you will not carry your end of the bargain, life will get a whole lot worse for you than it is now… Oh and the rent just went up. You can thank the president for that one. Yes we can raise the rent. Yes we can put your ass on the street. Yes we can force you outside in your nut stained underwear if you’re not really fucking careful. You thought you hated Jews back in the day? Well now you really got a reason, my friend.”
Martha came into the room smoking a cigarette, with a T-shirt that said, “I’m sexy and I know it.” Her breasts were at half-mast and it appeared as though her ass had deflated. In a husky smoker’s voice, she smiled, cleared her throat and calmly posed a question to Bernard.
“Bernice… Can’t we somehow work this whole thing out?”
At a well to-do nightclub in downtown Chicago near the large hotels that house conventioneers and businessman, Mickey dressed in black pants, white shirt and bow tie. Mickey’s job was to hand paper towels to patrons in the men’s bathroom that had just relieved themselves before returning back to dance and drink. A large patron among some very large people in these United States sat with his pants around his ankles in a stall and called out for help, unable to help himself up as he gasped for air and sweated profusely. Mickey caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror helping the morbidly obese Jewish man with a yarmulke on his head, pull up his pants. Mickey was nauseated by the fresh scent of shit that had not been flushed away into the abyss. Mickey could almost taste the breath of the large man who was sweating and panting as they both struggled to pull the man’s pants up and help him to his feet. The winded man asked Mickey his name as he stuffed a one-dollar bill into his shirt pocket condescendingly.
The obese man then recalled the old 1980’s syrupy; bubble gum hit by a woman named Toni Basil and began to serenade Mickey.

Hey, Mickey
Now when you take me by the hooves Who’s ever gonna know And every time you move I let a little more show, There’s something you can use so don’t say no, Mickey

Harry the Angry Clown or The Cubs Suck

September 12, 2011

Every city in the United States has that local figure that is known by most of the inhabitants who are native to that city. Harry the Angry Clown, is well known in Chicago for snapping one day the way a suicidal gun man does at a shopping mall. Harry never hurt anyone and never really wanted to. He was and always will be a clown and clowns really love to make people happy when happiness is hard to find.
Harry was a smallish Jewish boy who grew up in an area of the south side of Chicago that was Italian, Irish or Black. Harry’s father joked that having to dodge the micks, dagos and schwartas, would either make him fast or tough. For all of Harry’s disdain of the south side and ethnic groups, Harry never left his home. Harry stayed and took care of his parents and when they passed on, he remained in the home he always lived in.
Harry’s parents had wished that Harry would have become an attorney or a doctor or even a slick car salesman. The choice to become a full time clown did not sit well with either of his parents. Harry’s father would generally say the same things over and over to him about the logistics of not having a conventional vocation.
“Whaddya gonna do if you get sick? You want the government should take care of you? The goddamn government is broke and corrupt. They’ll find a goddamn loophole to leave you out in the cold. You wanna sit at Cook County with all the schwartzas? Huh? You smoke and don’t exercise. You eat nothing but fatty food. You’re gonna wind up a heart attack patient by the time you’re thirty years old.”
At the age of forty, Harry did wind up with a scare that left him waiting in the lobby of the country hospital for hours just as his father had prophesized. After real heart attacks, strokes, stabbings, shootings and overdoses, Harry would be seen by a physician. Harry didn’t much mind the wait because his favorite baseball team, The Chicago Cubs, was just beginning a road game on the west coast against San Diego.
Most intelligent people who analyze why it is that grown men live for and follow sports as if the sport had some sort of true direction on their lives, will tell you that these men are borderline delusional and lacking fundamental depth to their own lives. Following the statistics of individual players, spending larges sums of money on tickets to games, alcohol and food, when truly viewed properly appears to be a waste and a terrific diversion from reality. Those that run over small children in attempts to retrieve foul balls or home runs are usually cut of the same cloth as those who call sports radio and refer to their teams as if they were truly part of the team. “We just didn’t have it tonight…” These same individuals stand in line to have transitory athletes sign all sorts of things for them so that one day someone will enter their homes and ask who it was that signed that T shirt, that bat, that photograph? That moment will bring depth and meaning to their lives. Hopefully.
Harry was one of those men who in their mid forties, had followed the Chicago Cubs so closely that he could actually be put on a panel and quizzed game show style on obscure statistics and players who nobody remembered or cared about. Sitting in the hospital lobby really didn’t bother Harry. There he was in a red and yellow outfit with a red bulbous nose and white and black make up on his face. He held his chest as he slouched in his chair glued to the small television screen which was strapped to the ceiling. Other occupants either lived in the lobby because they were homeless or were poor people without insurance. Just about every seat in the lobby was taken but Harry felt fortunate to have a seat in front of the television. A burly and surly security guard sauntered through the lobby to make sure nothing too strange was happening. Harry stopped the guard and asked/demanded that he turn up the volume enough so that he could hear the commentators babble. The security guard refused to do it. Harry approached a young black child that was sitting in the lobby with his mother and his brothers and sisters. His youngest sister had swallowed a bell from a toy. The mom packed up her five children and took two buses to get to the hospital. Harry eyed the young boy who was about ten years of age. He thought the boy was strong and agile enough to reach up and turn up the volume manually to the television if he were to climb up and stand on Harry’s shoulders.
“Hey son! How would you like to make five dollars right here? No funny stuff even though I’m a clown. Five dollars and a candy bar. And I will give your brothers and sisters each a candy bar too. Doesn’t that sound swell? Whaddya say?”
The young wiry boy climbed up Harry in his clown suit as if he were a tree. He reached up and turned up the volume. The security guard was behind a podium talking to another security guard and never noticed the event taking place. The young boy scared the death out his mother and awed those sitting around watching when he did a backwards flip off of Harry’s shoulders and landed on his feet. The boy got a lot of claps. The clown got to watch the Cubs game with the benefit of audio.
The game ended and then the post game ended and then reruns of Friends ended. The late news came on and then infomercials for bras and a waist band that hid fat. Then the Cubs game aired again about 2am in the morning. Harry was still waiting. The young boy who did the flip was asleep, leaning against a younger brother. Harry watched the game for the second time. The Cubs had a commanding 10-0 lead. Zambrano had enough runs to hold him through three games and yet the Padres whittled away at the lead until the Padres were up 16-10 in the ninth inning. The Cubs would have had to score a touch down and kick and extra point to win the game at that point. Seeing the game a second time put Harry over the edge.
It is hard to say what it is that makes marginally sane people throw down their cards and opt out of the game. For Harry it was a culmination of several events that day. His wife and secretary had sent Harry to 7200 South Central when the party was at 7200 North Central, which was about twenty miles away. Harry missed the party and was being yelled at by the parent who said they had nothing else planned for twenty screaming and crying five year olds who were bored watching movies they had all seen many times. While Harry was listening to the berating, a Chicago Police officer noticed the clown talking on his cell phone while driving. Within the city limits of Chicago, it is unlawful to speak on a handheld device. Harry was ticketed for the use of a hand held cell phone, no seat belt, expired license plates, expired license card and a broken mirror. The cost to Harry was going to be hundreds of dollars. Harry called his wife and began swearing at her about not paying attention to north and south. His wife had no sense of direction and since she lived on the south side, she assumed the call came from the south side and never asked the client if the house they lived in was north or south of downtown Chicago. Everything just seemed to fall apart at once for Harry. He felt a tightening in his chest and decided that he needed to get to a hospital at once. Upon trying to get admitted to the nearest hospital, he was directed to the county hospital that had to take people with no insurance benefits. Fourteen hours later, Harry felt no more tightening in his chest. He was just incensed that he was still waiting and that he had to endure one of the most miserable Cub losses twice in a day. Harry walked out of the hospital and went directly to a bar on the north side that closed at four in the morning and then opened up again two hours later at six. The Cubs were scheduled to play the Pittsburg Pirates later that day as a make up for a rained out game earlier in the season. Both Pittsburg and the Cubs would have rather told the league that they both were happy to forfeit the meaningless game but the league wouldn’t let them do that. Instead the Cubs had to catch a red eye back to Chicago and be at Wrigley Field by 11am. It was a tough day for millionaires but they worked it out.
Harry drank beer and ate nuts and said nothing to the other patrons that were getting off of a third shift and wanted a beer or two before going to sleep. At about 11:30, Harry paid to get into Wrigley Field and was one of the first fans to enter the park. It will forever be known as the game that never happened. No rain or snow or other acts of God stopped the game from happening. The game was cancelled due to a hostage situation where by the entire Cubs team was being held at gun point by a man in a clown outfit in their clubhouse. Harry yelled into the faces of players as he made them kneel on the ground with their heads down as if they were praying. Nobody noticed at first that the gun was one of those guns that shoot a daisy out. One of the players who was an avid hunter in the off season realized that the gun was a fake. Several players rushed Harry and held him until the authorities arrived.
Harry wrote a book about his devotion to the Cubs and how he came to snap one day. This was after receiving psychiatric help and paying his debt to society in jail. Upon being released from prison, Harry did talk show after talk show and even had a cameo on Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm upon becoming a free man. The Chicago White Sox gave Harry a life time season ticket four rows up behind home plate in full view for the viewers at home, watching the games on television. The caveat was that Harry had to attend all home games in full clown gear with an oversized White Sox hat and T shirt. The White Sox were nearly as frustrating as the Cubs but at least they ended each season with a winning record and a tease of post season play. Harry became less enthralled with baseball and spectator sports in general. When asked about professional baseball by a sports reporter in Chicago and the allure they hold with the common man, Harry had only one comment while smoking a cigarette outside US Cellular Field.
“It’s all pretty much a clown show… Right?”