I don’t see what the big deal is here. It’s not like this three-year-old getting bombed at a Phillies game is gonna get behind the wheel and drive home. The Sporting Blog reports that the kid might be only 3 years of age. At this pace, he’ll be killing a bottle of Jack before noon by the time he’s 10. But if he’s anything like Lenny Dykstra, he probably will. I’m a fan of the move. With Phillies fans drinking sooner, they’ll all become impotent by the time they’re 13. That’s great, since 13 is the typical age where they settle down and have children, you see. But yeah, that kid’s parents must be a real couple of boobs…
So loyal reader Upstate Underdog sends in a link to this clip with an email that reads, “Not really sports related, but watching a chubby shirtless guy getting [knocked out] is always fun to watch.” Yes, Mr. Underdog. Yes it is. And if anyone out there can explain the belt snapping and the maniac counting to ten, I’d sure appreciate it. I think this is how they used to play hide and seek in the Soviet Union. You can do that sort of thing with universal health care.
Over the next week or so, Josh will recap some of his adventures at Blogs With Balls 2.0, the new sports media conference held last weekend in Las Vegas, presented by FoxSports.com, Yardbarker.com, ESPN.com, SB Nation, Sports Illustrated, Diageo Liquors and CarbonPoker. This is one of those anecdotes. Actually, it’s a video recap of the parties that everyone threw for us.
The masterminds running the Blogs With Balls Technicolor Dreamcoat have released another video from the Vegas conference, and if you think I came off like an ignorant ass in text, wait until you see this. But honestly, if this is the worst video they have on me in Sin City, I got off easy…as far as anyone else knows. Kevin Blackistone is still undergoing therapy from the experience, and the psychiatrist encourages him in group by awarding him points for his stronger responses.
The bad news? It was a 47-year-old guy (emphasis added):
[Gary Jones] of Gettysburg, was sentenced to one month in jail followed by two months of house arrest and 21 months of probation. He was also ordered to avoid contact with his neighbors and to pay a $200 fine.
Police said Jones emerged naked from his home after consuming alcohol Aug. 1 and approached neighbors Dennis Hucks, Gary Kerns and Andrea Orndorff while Huck’s three children played nearby. He told the men that he knew karate and asked if any of them wanted to fight.
Jones allegedly told officers that he knew leaving his house naked was illegal, but he came out anyway because he is a “serious martial artist.”
That guy is a serious martial artist. And that’s why he went outside to show those kids his wang. He probably wanted to re-enact that Bruce Lee movie, Enter The Toddler.
Various field reports have been filed, uploaded and vaguely remembered by those onhand through the haze of infield drinking and savage beatings. Whereas last year we were treated to footage of Port-O-Potty racing, the new white hot mess this year was flinging unopened beer cans and engaging in Socratic dialectics on the subject of flinging unopened beer cans. Somehow those actions resulted in people bleeding heavily from the face, as if that's some sort of logical extension of heavy projectiles. Naturally, respectable local media was hanging amidst the fracas to relay the shameful proceedings to an audience, like the revelers, totally uninterested in the horsey races.
A year later, the game had changed: now, the sprinting was banished to history's dustbin, as the flying debris itself took center stage.
Near as anyone could tell, today's game of beer-can volleyball broke out when someone flung a brew from on top of an outhouse. That, the surrounding masses realized, looked like jolly good fun. And soon the sky filled with silver-and-foam, the silver signifying surprisingly heavy vessels of lite beer, the foam showing that this lite beer anxiously wished to come out and join the party.
Six, seven, eight cans were volleyed back and forth simultaneously, some being consumed after their fleshy landings, others taking flight again. Some infielders shielded their heads with Styrofoam coolers. Others joined forces, hoisting a giant blue tarp to ward off the incoming fermentable attack.
One man proudly showed off what he claimed was a beer-can related broken finger. Another yanked a can out of mid-air, consumed its contents and chomped the defeated can between his jaws. A young woman face's snapped back after impact; she shook her head and managed a timid laugh.
The only thing that beats a beer-can related broken finger is a beer can filled with broken finger. It creates a really pleasing rattle, is all. It will be interesting to see what event will be showcased next year in the Pimlico Submoronic Olympics. Summer sports are covered with the sprinting and the Volley-Boh. We need some sort of slalom down heaps of insensate drunkards.