this weeks installment at the Stebs Bait Shop, Adult Emporium, and Ice Cream Parlor:
A reading of the classic novel and counterculture icon,
Naked Brunch, by: Pop N. Fresh
Super Sized by Dave Thomas, with illustrations by Bud Selig.
Black Sox Press, 9 pages, $47.95 list. $12.5o borrowed. $3.2o stolen.
Chapter One: Breaking Rocks in the Hot Sun.
First, I would like to thank the team for the bail money.
It is a very long story. But, L.S.S.-Long Story Short-let us just say that my typewriter was released on it's on recognizance. Yes, agreeable, it may sound strange that my typewriter went on a crime bender, but for those of you who don't know this particular model, they have a tendency to go off half cocked sometimes. And if they haven't had a good nap, they're an outright hand full. Now, although we don't have all the puzzle pieces back from the lab (we're missing a corner piece and a couple from the sky area) that's just exactly what happened. And that's why I couldn't write for the sows web page yet this summer.
Regarding the primary charge, it was listed as "Crimes against the State". Which, by the way, was reduced from "Crimes against nature", with a "repeated emphasis on Nature". But the team's attorney, Howard B. Thyname, worked a deal; some slick technicality kind of mumbo jumbo deal, and the Brother is back home.
At this time, how and why my typewriter, good old "Brother, Mark IV" ended up in the Scottsdale County Minimum Security Facility for Wayward Writing Machines is kinda long and arduous. Sorta like when Samantha's mother put a spell on ol' "Durwood, and it took all of the allotted thirty minutes, minus commercials, before Samantha could straighten things out again. Remember? And the old lady next door thought surely, something was up, but couldn't catch them in the act. Remember that one?
Anyway, at press time I'm still a bit confounded by all the legal jargon; after all, I'm just your average, witty, good looking, simple-minded, run-of-the-mill, writer/poet, ball playing-taxidermist-nascar driver. Very run-of-the-mill, dime a dozen, we are.
But, here's what I'm clear on: After my beloved typewriter- you remember, the Mark IV- performs 39 hours of Community Service, all charges will be dropped from the courthouse records. I was also told that the property damage in the Scottsdale area was kept to a "reasonable limit-considering the force of the impact".
I've also been told the cow in Yakima WILL pull through. There was major concern before the emergency appendectomy, but Betsy will be back on her hooves shortly.
So will the Billy goat in Ogden, by the way.
But the cat... well, according to both the local Pathologist and the county coroner, the cat was already dead when the Mark IV showed up at the Goldberg's Barmitzvah, in the Coconut Lounge at the Holiday Inn, in downtown Flagstaff. Where, oddly enough, our old team pitcher, Al, and his new band, The Treetop Leaf Beetles, was playing for the tenth sold out night
And the report concerning the inferno, initially started in the tool shed down at the rubber swimming fins manufacturing plant, has been contained to just the original forty square blocks that one time previously threatened to wipe out Yuma.
Also, we are happy to report the test came back negative, repeat negative, on all six sisters of the "Order of the Flaming Cross Monastery for Left-Handed Nuns". Way to go girls!
And, lastly, a small suggestion to the Mayor of Eureka, sorry about the mess on the towns water tower, but with a little spackle, and deft work with a spray gun, the phrase could be changed to, "Bill Gates' dad was n't a Jackal". See how that extra couple of letter changes the whole dang thing? Maybe ol' Bill will see the "improvements" you've made, and drop the plans to flatten the city with a bulldozer next week. It's worth a try, right?
Chapter eight: Back in Baby's Arms.
But now that I got my typewriter back home, and chained to the toaster, "Mr. Burnie, the magic talking toaster" who has assured me he ain't letting Mark out of his sight, I can get back to my weakly, er, weekly reports. Which brings us to this: The review of the season, so far.
We won a few.
We lost a few.
There, that should clear things up, and now on to new business.
We got two games left, so if you haven't come out yet, now's your chance to drop by the old ball yard and cheer on your favorite sows. We are on a four, or is it five, game-winning streak, and we're looking to stink up the dump the rest of the way. (Note of clarification: "stinking up the dump" is a colorful euphemism used in a positive way by some of the sows in reference to playing well. i.e.: sparkling defense, clutch hitting, buying a round, and so on, and is not intended to insult some of the more pungently odorous players)
Chapter two: And Then There Were Two.
Here are the remaining games;
July 26th @ 9:oo vs. Performance Pudgy Bodies.
(It's fight night, out at the ball yard. good times ahead)
These are the punks who got tired of getting their asses kicked in B League, so they slithered down to D League. And on a side note, three cheers for Agri-Flex. You made us D Leaguers proud last week.
And August 2nd @ 7:oo vs. Kimball Avenue Methadone Clinic.
(It's Young Toughs Night. They may be hopped up on goof balls-watch out!!)
These are the guys who started the only three bench clearing brawls in the history of the park. But the years-and the advancement in newer medications-may be taking the edge off their youthful exuberance. Why, just a couple of weeks ago we kicked their tails, and nobody got all riled up, or tipped over the umpire's car out in the parking lot, like last year. I mean, we dug them a big hole and they jumped right in; a complete change from the old days. Ah. Youth, it's a fleeting whisper. Plus that smarmy guy they got pitching most of the time, he finally dropped those god-awful, piss-yellow sun glasses he'd wear during night games. Talk about your bad Peter Fonda impersonations.
Holy counterculture, Captain America!
Chapter 7%: Wax On, Wax Off. The Sows Pledge.
The Sows cannot thank the fans enough for all your support, free booze, false alibis to the cops, and bus fare to the swank Poke'mon Art Exhibit down at Tony's Pizza, but we are here with a solemn pledge to you-yes you. No, not the hairy odd-ball standing directly behind you right now, breathing down your blouse, but you-our beloved and cherished fans. We understand the modern, on the go, 24-7, full-tilt fans that come to the games. We understand you don't have a lot of free time to dill-dally about waiting for the sows to win or lose the game. "Shit or get off the pot, already!!" We hear coming from the bleachers. You NEED to know, and NEED to know now!
So, here's our promise: the outcome of the game will be decided within the first hour, give or take, of the contest OR YOUR MONEY BACK. GUARANTEED.
That's right, each game comes with it's own money back policy. Folks you can't beat that. From here on out, each Wednesday forth, until the Sun in our universe blows up, and kills all life (our lawyer made us put that part in, just so we wouldn't get sued), you will get your ticket price cheerfully reimbursed if we can't deliver a sound verdict in the allotted time. And you ain't getting no better deal from nobody else around here, consarnit! Go check with them punks, old Perform-GUT Bodies. They probably ate their guarantee. Heck, I'll bet even the good teams like CherryWood Chuggers haven't got any guarantee, by gum it.
Nope, just us. So, come out and support your local sow. And remember, coming to our ball games count toward your community service hours. Contact your local Judge regarding the details. And a big thanks to Missy for the proofing.
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