Tuesday's Cubs Game

My buddy Seamus came over after work, to perform our "let's go to every Cub night game" ritual. We pounded a couple quick beers and smoked a few cigs, then unexpectedly the cleaning ladies showed up (ahem, three hours late), which forced us to move our micro-wrecking crew down to Pippin's. After listening to a short Ecuadorian guy piss and moan about his diswashing job in Spanish (which neither I nor Seamus understood in the least), we headed back to my place for a few more beers. I was very insistent that we ought pound three beers between the Chicago and Addison Red Line stops, to break up the boredom of that awful (ha ha) fifteen minute train ride to baseball-land. A lady came up to me and said, "There are narcs everywhere." We kind of blew her off, trying to keep the beers on the d.l.

Not surprisingly, however, we were ticketed for public consumption and disorderly conduct within seconds of stepping off the El car. "That sucks," I thought to myself. As we sat on the granite benches in same, the officer actually apologized for writing us up, and he said he thought our self-flagellations were hysterical. I don't remember exactly what sort of scene we made as we waited for our background checks to be called in, but I'm glad the armed gorrilla didn't take offense at our offensiveness. At one point, though, Seamus blurted out, "What the fuck are you lookin' at," to a kid in a Jeff Gordon shirt. As a die-hard Tony Stewart guy, Seamus despises everything to do with Jeff Gordon.

After receiving our copies of the citations, we scalped the best seats in the house--4th row directly behind first base--and, after drinking four beers and chain smoking for three innings, we only ended up sitting in our seats for just 4 outs. My memory became a bit hazy at that point, but I remember Seamus swearing at guys who were swearing, because there were children nearby. I was very drunk and confused about what was happening, so I said, "What in the fuck is going on right now?! I AM SO FUCKING DRUNK AND CONFUSED!" One of the fathers then turned around and yelled at us to leave, shouting, "My kids don't need to learn how to swear from some drunk assholes at the fucking Cubs game!" Funny, that's how I learned how to swear. We were way too drunk to pay attention to the game, and our neighbors completely hated us, so it was time to move downstairs for better alcohol access.

After stumbling around the concourse and holding court with various friends for an hour, we passed a girl who was wearing a Jeff Gordon hat and jacket. Merely seconds before, Gordon had finished possibly the single worst rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" in the history of Wrigley Field--people were booing his inability to remember the most basic things about the tune, like not knowing the song begins with "Take me out to the ballgame". Watching that little prick stand there like a dope, trying to find a clue in his tele-promp-ter, nervous as hell that the 40,000 downstairs would happily tear him to shreds--the whole scene was beyond awful.

Seamus walked up and said something like, "So you're really into Jeff Gordon, huh?" which prompted this chick go on and on about how she thinks Jeff Gordon is the cutest guy of all time, Seamus abruptly cut her off by slurring, "Hey, he's around here somewhere. Why don't you see if you can stalk him down and ask him if he'll suck YOUR dick?" Thankfully, her large-ish boyfriend was completely stunned speechless, and we slipped into the flow of humanity and away from them without an incident.

A couple minutes later, standing at a concession stand behind home plate, I started hitting on a really slutty looking girl who was standing in a beer line with some homo-ish pretty boy. I don't hesitate to flirt with any and all women, because fuck it--have you ever met a single girl? Hell no. Chicks are never single--they just wait to jump from one guy to the next, like the fabulous little tree monkies they are.

At first the girl said she was the dude's girlfriend, then she backed off from that line and said he was really her brother. I took this as a sign of improving the chances of trading fluids with her. The guy, it turns out, was relatively sackless and and said nothing as I hit on the girl, so whatever their relationship was, it was clear he was not going to get with her. We started with the typical, "What's your name? Where are you from? Are you tits real?" Much to my dismay, I forget the entire conversation. I think she might have been on something, but weren't we all?

Out of the blue, slutty girl said, "Wanna go fuck in the bathroom?" I put my arm around her and started off toward the bathroom. She pulled up short halfway there, so I said, "A hot girl asked a severely shitfaced guy if he wants to go fuck in the bathroom. How'd you think I was going to respond?!" She started to say something about how embarassing it'd be to screw in front of all the people in the bathroom, but I cut her off by jamming my tongue down her throat, right there in the concourse under Wrigley. Classy.

The game ended right about then, so after openly burning as the crowd filed out, the slutty girl, the dude, Seamus, and I headed over to Bernie's. I promptly ordered three screw-top bottles of beer--one for each of my pockets and one to drink. (The beers didn't last in my pockets very long.) I figure I was just shy of 20 beers by the end of the game, so those extra beers really laid on the haze. I lost track of myself for about an hour, and so was pleasantly surprised when I came out of my blackout, standing outside the front door of the bar. I looked in and saw that Seamus was now taking his turn at making out with the slutty girl. I was pissed for a second or two, that that bastard had pimped my perviously claimed turf.

Then the memory of where I had been for the last hour came rushing to mind: I had just puked my ass off in the bike check building next to the park. Accepting that my chances of going over there and pimping the girl back from my buddy were low, I cursed the vomit smeared all over my pants for putting me in such a helpless predicament and walked back into the bar.

I made the only reasonable move one might expect given the circumstances: I pounded three Jagerbombs, ostensibly in an effort to kill the puke taste in my mouth. The first was rough, the second one barely made it down, and the third lasted about thirteen seconds, at which all that brown liquid (and more) went flying right back into the bar from whence they came. Oops. Not a problem--I know the guys who own the bar, and they already hate me. Before last night's game, in fact, one of my buddies who bounces there stopped a new guy who'd asked for our IDs and said, "Hey, hey, you don't card these guys. They're Class-C celebrities around here." Class-C indeed.

The next thing I knew, Seamus was lobbing french fries at me, and I was sprawled out on a bench at the McDonald's on Clark. In a stunning retaliatory maneuver, I grabbed a burger and took a run at him, smeared the food all over his face and hair, and a wrestling match ensued. We were down on the ground beating the crap out of each other for several seconds, when an orca-fat McDonald's employee thundered towards us, screaming away like a banshee and interjecting her fat arms to separate us. After I caught my breath for a second, I unexpectedly found myself launching a full cup of Coke at the lady. She was screaming in fury as we sprinted onto the street. There's a strong chance that the McDonald's incident was videotaped by a security camera of some sort. I would have loved to get a copy of it, because I bet it's hysterical.

We jumped into a cab which was (thank Christ) driving past the McDonald's as we ran out. Upon entering the cab, we began to rant like champs about everything under the sun--drinking and puking, how bad the Cubs were, our obsession with tits and ass, and how slow the no-good cabbie shitfuck was driving. I must have really pissed the guy off, because the next thing I know, the guy was going about 100 m.p.h. down Lake Shore Drive. He turned around and screamed at me, "Is this fast enough for you?! Is this fast enough for you, you motherfucker?!" I rolled down the window and stuck my torso out of the window, howling like a deranged lunatic, loving every second of it.

Upon pulling up to my building, we discovered merely $4 between us--not nearly enough to cover the Wrigleyville-Gold Coast ride. So I whispered to Seamus, "Scatter NOW!" With a shrug over his left shoulder, he says, "I'm going back thattaway." We bolted out of the car and took off running--he in a ridiculously zig-zagging gait back down Chestnut Street (the cabbie didn't throw it in reverse and run him over, which was a very definite and horrifying possibility at that point), while I bolted up a ramp into a parking garage. It seemed like we made it home unschated.

I got upstairs to my place a couple minutes later and found that Seamus had beaten me home. (I don't know exactly how, but I also don't remember how long exactly it took me to stumble five hundred feet home, but he beat me.) He was passed out on the floor in front of my apartment, leaning his back against the door. He had also, to his great misfortune, just finished pissing himself. Also, he was mumbling something or other about Mexicans, but I couldn't hear what that was all about because I was laughing so hard. He got up from the lake of pee, I got him settled on the couch, and he passed out. I, unfortunately, didn't even have time to empty my pockets before proceeding to vomit my brains out in the bathroom for about two hours.

That was only Tuesday. I've been on a solid 5-day-out-of-6 day bender since Friday (Monday was an off-day), and I figure that span saw me consume a minimum of 100 units of alcohol. I'm sure that those stories are bad; too few of those memories have returned from the ether to write them down just yet, but Tuesday's Cubs game was a pretty awesome time all by itself.