I Don't Care if this is a Charity Fundraiser, I Will Hit You With a Fucking Beach Ball

So I’m at this outdoor rock concert the other night and I did something pretty shameful. I hit a girl in the head. I feel really bad about it. Really bad. Well, I think I should feel bad about it. The truth is, I actually don't feel bad about it. Not at all. Not even a little. It’s not like I hit her with my fist or an open hand or a bat or a tire iron or something like that. I hit her with a beach ball. A green & white beach ball from about twelve feet away. And it wasn’t so much a rock concert as it was a fund raiser for the local athletic association held on a little league ball field headlined by a local band playing ‘80s music in front of approximately three hundred subruralite Ohioans half-drunk on $4.00 domestic drafts. And it didn’t so much hit her in the head as it hit in her ear and the side of her neck. And, well, she kinda had it coming.

The band was one of those local party bands who’ve played together for twenty-plus years and whose members, despite being more talented than they were twenty years ago, no longer dream of making it big but instead just dream of making enough extra cash to pay for their kids’ college tuition or to buy a new Prius. They’re as much party hosts as they are musicians and they’re pretty well adept as both. It was clear about ten minutes into the show that those in the crowd who were familiar with the band were well aware that it was cool for anyone to join them on stage at any time without invitation. And it soon became clear to the rest of us that this meant a steady parade on and then off the stage of tipsy housewives (more milfs than non-milfs thankfully) doing their best self-aware impersonations of backup singers and dancers to such classics as Jessie’s Girl, Workin’ for a Livin’ and Pour Some Sugar on Me.

It was all good, clean, blow-off-some-steam non-pretentious fun until the set list came to Prince’s Let’s Go Crazy. Within seconds, onto the stage strode a leggy, short-haired brunette in tight jeans, high heels and an insatiable need to be noticed. She claimed her place at the front of the stage, begrudgingly sharing it with the band’s lead singer and proceeded to unleash a flurry of professional dance moves the likes which have not been seen since the Solid Gold dancers turned to a life of porn retired.

In all fairness, she was a good dancer and credible reports circulated throughout the crowd that she was once gainfully employed as a Rockette. But this wasn’t Radio City Music Hall and we didn’t pay to see her kick her milfy denim-wrapped legs around on stage. She either wasn’t aware of these facts or she simply didn’t care because she kept kicking and strutting with such power and precision, emphasizing each overly choreographed movement with either an overly exaggerated four-mile-wide smile or an overly exaggerated Billy Idol-ish snarl. When she eventually decided to toss in the sideways “V” sweep across the eyes move (which by the way is the only five seconds of Pulp Fiction that doesn’t hold up), I had had enough. So when one of those green & white beach balls emblazoned with the band’s logo landed at my feet, I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the ball, nudged my buddy Joe, gave him a quick nod, gently flicked the ball into the air with my left hand, then power-served it into the side of her head much to the delight of everyone who was paying attention.

Like a good former and now too old to get paid for it professional dancer, she quickly shook it off and continued with her unwarranted performance. And like a good professional born ‘n raised bitter westsider who never lived up to his potential sniper, I headed to the Port-o-Let and eventually to the beer truck for another $4.00 Budweiser in a plastic cup. I couldn’t help my reaction to that attention-whore any more than she could help her whorish need to get on that stage and beg for attention. So while I should probably feel bad for what I did, I don’t. And while she should probably realize what everyone was thinking of her for how she was strutting around, she won’t.

Nevertheless, the proper thing for me to do is to apologize. So in front of God and the tens of people reading this blog, I would like to offer my heartfelt apology to you, leggy, short-haired attention whore, whoever and wherever you are. It was a senseless, albeit warranted, act of mild rage that you only somewhat deserved. I sincerely wish you all the best on your never-ending quest for attention and would even like to get to know more about you. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person with a great story to tell. Maybe we could get together sometime and go to a hotel and fuck out for an ice cream or something. I’m married but my wife never reads this blog and I trust each other completely. By the way, your ass looked great in those jeans and you have really nice jugs. … You’re welcome.


And now, on with this week’s abbreviated matchups…



Raiders at Bills-
Harvard boy may get maimed.



Packers at Panthers-
Newton to get figged newtered.



Chiefs at Lions-
Chiefs are fucking horrible.



Browns at Colts-
Manning without a neck, or even a spinal cord, has got to be better than Kerry Collins.



Buccaneers at Vikings-
Two black quarterbacks. That would be a GREAT name for a band.



Bears at Saints-
Two white quarterbacks. Not a great name for a band.



Jaguars at Jets-
J!-E!-T!-S! Suck! SUCK! SUCK!!



Seahawks at Steelers-
Big Ben needs some non-consensual sex a slumpbuster.



Ravens at Tennessee-
I’m printing shirts that read “Don’t Hassle the Beck”. No, I’m not.



Cardinals at Redskins-
Rex Grossman? Seriously?



Cowboys at Niners-
Damn the Niners, Damn them straight to hell!



Bengals at Broncos-
The Broncos are dealing with a horrible tenuous quarterback controversy, may have as many as six starters injured and not playing in this one and my guess is they’ll still be favored to win.



Texans at Dolphins-

The Tony Sporano Farewell Tour plays its second show in Miami.



Chargers at Patriots-
Tom Brady is half a fag. The other half is the best quarterback of the last decade.



Eagles at Falcons-
Vick versus the team that fired him for killing innocent dogs.



Monday Night

Rams at Giants-
A New York or Boston professional sports team featured on a nationally televised ESPN telecast? Shocking.