Tuesday, June 18, 2013

the desperate slut's comprehensive guide to SPORTZ.

my playoff beard is full as fuck, bro. the blackhawks are in the stanley cup final, and a couple hours before the start of the first game i received the following text from eve: "asshole. put some outside pants on and let's go birddog frat boys at gingerman. i need to get laid." an unappealing proposition on a regular night, i scanned the newspaper to confirm my suspicion that it was, in fact, the first night of hockey's championship series. i replied: "can't. it's white people christmas. staying indoors." undeterred, she continued to nag at me until i relented, agreeing to hang out for one shot and one beer. and maybe another shot. okay fine, two beers and two possibly three shots but that's it, i swear. i mean, come on. give me a break. IT'S A CELEBRATION, BITCH.

from the cab i could tell that everyone in the bar was already fucking drunk. my idiot homegirl was teetering on sky high heels on the corner, trying to look cool while smoking what i assumed was a panhandled cigarette. a gentleman in a bruins jersey fell out of the front door, vomiting down his front and then again onto a parked car. "you think my husband's in there?" i asked her sarcastically, with the kind of false, saccharine enthusiasm that clearly means "FUCK YOU." alas, our husbands were not at the bar that night. nor were they on clark street after the end of 3OTs, pissing into garbage cans in plain sight or playfully punching each other in the dicks. i can't front, though, THAT GAME WAS EXCITING AS SHIT. especially at the end, when all of those weary combatants were basically skating a lazy swan lake around the ice while collectively clenching what had to be colons packed full of stool. that's the kind of shit i worry about, that no one was allowed to poop during that long-ass game. even though some dude wrote his number on the back of eve's hand (but for why, tho? we have cellular telephones!) our mission, and i use that phrase loosely, proved mostly unsuccessful. you know why? because some girls just never learn that competitive professional sports and trying to talk to a dude about that amazing article in the atlantic that you read (true story, i was sitting there) while the game is on a nearby television don't fucking mix. 

so now i'm sitting at home in my glamorous black jumpsuit listening to game two on my 12-inch wide child-sized television, squinting at the screen while glaring alternately between an abacus and my stupid iphone trying to figure out how many weight watchers points are in this chicken soup i ate straight from the can. actually, i don't care. but i need to know if i have enough motherfucking points left today to dip this broccoli in a glob of melted cheese. thankfully, at home in my inside clothes rather than sitting in a bar eating communal pretzels and watching my friend try to engage a man who made a special point to loosen his belt and show us his blackhawks boxer shorts in reasonably intelligent adult conversation. a man who continued to shout, "GET IT OUT OF THE FUCKING ZONE!" at the top of his lungs every time i politely asked which lincoln park bar he likes to date rape at the most. "GOOD SAVE, GOALIE!" shut up ugh.

HOCKEY, in three relatively easy sentences. 1 ice hockey is a team sport played on ice in which skaters use sticks to shoot a hard rubber hockey puck into their opponent's net to score points. 2 five members of each team skate up and down the ice trying to take the puck and score a goal against the opposing team; each team has a goaltender who tries to stop the puck from going into the goal. 3 they fistfight each other and shit.

alternative to watching that shit: now i’m gonna be real with you: i don’t really fuck with hockey that much. 1 the puck is too goddamned small for normal, rapidly-deteriorating almost middle-aged eyeholes. 2 the blood and missing teeth. 3 i don’t speak french so i can't pronounce half the names and all that backwards skating, while impressive, is kind of moist. i know this because i used to figure skate before i retired at age 9 to instead make terrible relationship choices and eat truckloads of simple carbohydrates. which, if you follow my boring, infrequent instagramming, you already fucking know. i'm reaching here, but i imagine that the height of hockey playoff season is probably a good time for the rest of us to go to home depot and look at riding lawnmowers? shop for golf accessories? try on boat shoes?! WHAT DO WHITE MEN DO ALL DAY.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? HARDLY. you are not getting high-sticked tonight, my love. you are going to sulk in a corner with a lukewarm drink while dudes with the composition of softened cream cheese that has been sprinkled with coarse hair bellow drunkenly into one another's faces while howling "c'mon, hjalmarsson! where's the fucking penalty?!" at one of the 137 mounted television screens.

BASKETBALL, in four relatively easy sentences. 1 basketball is a sport played by two teams of five players on a rectangular court; the objective is to shoot a ball through a hoop mounted to a backboard at each end. 2 the ball can be advanced on the court by bouncing it while walking or running or throwing it to a team mate; it is a violation to move without dribbling the ball, to carry it, or to hold the ball with both hands then resume dribbling. 3 baby mama drama and shitty tattoos.

alternative to watching that shit. when are basketball games on, every single night of the week? and when is basketball season? like, all the fucking time?! if you can figure it out, go where black people aren't. but only if it's a good game. ain't nobody staying home to watch charlotte or sacramento, son.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? NOT A CHANCE. where do black men congregate, jail? OH I'M JUST KIDDING, SENSITIVE FACE. they're all in college! anyway, jamal and them are all watching the game at the barber shop. or in his ma duke's basement, on that 1,276" television he's renting to own. you and the other wannabe video vixens will be standing around sucking in your bellies and adjusting your rainbow-colored lacefronts at buffalo wild wings all by your lonesomes.

BASEBALL, in three relatively easy sentences. 1 baseball is a bat-and-ball game played between two teams of nine players who take turns batting and baserunning. 2 the offense attempts to score more runs than its opponents by hitting a ball thrown by the pitcher with a bat and moving counter-clockwise around a series of four bases. 3 SHIT IS MAD BORING, BRO.

alternative to watching that shit: anything indoors and not "summer-themed." 

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? NEVER. i always see old sad dudes sitting in bars watching baseball and sucking down old style. because no other productive memebers of society have nine consecutive hours to spend watching the boringest game on earth.

FOOTBALL, in four relatively easy sentences: 1 american football, known in the united states as football, is a sport played by two teams of eleven players on a rectangular field with goalposts at each end. 2 the offense attempts to advance an oval ball down the field by running with or passing it. 3 they must advance it at least ten yards in four downs to receive a new set of four downs and continue the drive; if not, they turn over the ball to the opposing team. 4 sexy fat dudes in tight, shiny pants and tom brady. WINNER WINNER CHICKEN DINNER.

alternative to watching that shit: football season is a good time for you and all of the lipstick lesbians in your life to try EVERY SINGLE BRUNCH SPOT IN THE CITY. bitches want to roll out of bed at 1130 on a sunday morning with a balmy breeze wafting through the open window across the room while they slip on maxidresses and giant, face-obscuring sunglasses then sit for three motherfucking hours on the patio at southport grocery. while i stand there waiting for them. because it's busy. BECAUSE IT'S SPRINGTIME. bitches love eating quiche outside on seventy-degree sunday afternoons. what they don't love is slogging through a foot of grey slush to try the breakfast punch at carriage house. every hotspot in the city that has a three hour goddamned wait in early may has a three minute wait in the middle of december. so go to there. eat all of the fancy things. it's fucking cold here, man. you're not going to meet shit.

worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? ABSOLUTELY NOT, unless you are a woefully underdressed, comically large-breasted female server whose massive tits are propped up with the help of a tray of hot wings and pints of cold beer and the source of all her motherfucking tips.


SOCCER, in three relatively easy sentences: come again? what’s that now?

alternative to watching that shit: ANYTHING ELSE YOU COULD EVER POSSIBLY DO. in 2010, when the fifa world cup was in south africa and in a weird surge of homeland pride black people in america pretended to give a fuck about soccer for five minutes, i went to a bar with my manfriend at the time to take in a match. what? i'm receptive! i'm into new and exciting experiences! i like going places with bass on draft!!! anyway, after ten minutes of watching sweat-slicked brazilians slamming themselves into the burly dutch dude was like, "put your book away, we're going to a movie." now was that closed-minded gorilla just being an uncultured neanderthal? of course he was. but was i really trying to see inception for the fourth glorious time? you bet your sweet little dick i was. besides, i'm dumb. AND I'M FROM AMERICA. if there isn't a talking dog on it or it isn't made from fresh creamery butter we're not interested, thank you very much.


worth wasting your tits at a sports bar? PROBABLY. who the fuck watches soccer?!