Pitchers and catchers are allowed to report today (for Major League Baseball; I’m not familiar with the calendars for any other activities that involve “pitchers” and “catchers”), and Opening Day is only 47 days away. While I’m not optimistic about the Cleveland Indians' chances this year (let’s just say that I think Kansas City has an excellent shot at not finishing last), baseball season is always welcome.
Of course, there are some times when life just gets oh-so-interesting that what one really needs is the simplicity of a brat and a beer at the ballpark. The Boise Hawks’ home opener isn’t until June 21st (dang, they need to get into Single A so they can play a full season), however, so unfortunately, the therapeutic respite afforded by a day in the sun is a long way off.
Luckily, there’s an event coming up in just over a month upon which I plan to focus with such intensity that all of life’s little annoyances* will be forgotten: National Corndog Day. Last year, the host pub committed the corndinal sin of running out (seriously, who the fuck runs out of corndogs on National Corndog Day?), which necessitated an impromptu rule change toward the end of the evening, so that one couldn't simply order the last dog to deny someone else the opportunity: If a contestant ordered a corndog, but couldn’t finish it, one was subtracted from their total. So with one corndog left in the place, and me about halfway through one that would have created a tie, N*88 pulled the trigger on it. “Drop it, Beaker …” he said, with all the cool of Sinatra on a Vegas stage. The crowd gasped, and several of the more delicate onlookers fainted straight away. I watched in awe (and some horror, to be honest) as he slowly devoured it, knowing that if he couldn’t finish it, I’d take the title. In retrospect, I’m glad he made it, as there’s no valor in a victory of that sort, and the honor of just being able to be a part of the competition was enough.
He’s had his reign, though, and on March 20, it’s time to crown a new corndog king.
I will not bedeep fried denied.
Above: What heaven must be like.
* Current annoyances are mainly centered around why my stupid dog won’t die (at which point I can get a good one). I’m fairly scabbed ‘n’ scarred right now, as a result of trying to get the Live Acorn’s cat to be friends with her … you know, I try to make the world a more peaceful place by breaking down interspecial barriers, and what do I get? I get to clean up blood, that’s what. My god, it was like an explosion at the Red Cross donation center. Oh, the humanity …
Of course, there are some times when life just gets oh-so-interesting that what one really needs is the simplicity of a brat and a beer at the ballpark. The Boise Hawks’ home opener isn’t until June 21st (dang, they need to get into Single A so they can play a full season), however, so unfortunately, the therapeutic respite afforded by a day in the sun is a long way off.
Luckily, there’s an event coming up in just over a month upon which I plan to focus with such intensity that all of life’s little annoyances* will be forgotten: National Corndog Day. Last year, the host pub committed the corndinal sin of running out (seriously, who the fuck runs out of corndogs on National Corndog Day?), which necessitated an impromptu rule change toward the end of the evening, so that one couldn't simply order the last dog to deny someone else the opportunity: If a contestant ordered a corndog, but couldn’t finish it, one was subtracted from their total. So with one corndog left in the place, and me about halfway through one that would have created a tie, N*88 pulled the trigger on it. “Drop it, Beaker …” he said, with all the cool of Sinatra on a Vegas stage. The crowd gasped, and several of the more delicate onlookers fainted straight away. I watched in awe (and some horror, to be honest) as he slowly devoured it, knowing that if he couldn’t finish it, I’d take the title. In retrospect, I’m glad he made it, as there’s no valor in a victory of that sort, and the honor of just being able to be a part of the competition was enough.
He’s had his reign, though, and on March 20, it’s time to crown a new corndog king.
I will not be
Above: What heaven must be like.* Current annoyances are mainly centered around why my stupid dog won’t die (at which point I can get a good one). I’m fairly scabbed ‘n’ scarred right now, as a result of trying to get the Live Acorn’s cat to be friends with her … you know, I try to make the world a more peaceful place by breaking down interspecial barriers, and what do I get? I get to clean up blood, that’s what. My god, it was like an explosion at the Red Cross donation center. Oh, the humanity …
6 comments:
Let's dance Dead Acorn.
This is purely cornographic and I will read no more.
I 'ear ya. I wrote it mostly for my online stalkers. There's barely a kernal of truth to any of it.
I do regret writing about baseball and corn and not mentioning Ty Cob, though.
I long to try a corn dog. They sound delish. I see them in American movies and salivate. Am deprived.
Domestic Oub ... they're heaven on a stick. The best ones are at the state fair (I'm not sure if there's an analogue in Ireland ... a week long carnival type thingy, where ranchers/farmers show off their prize livestock, there's wild-ass rides, games, etc). I'm a little upset at the fucking xenophobes/exlusionists who made it "National" instead of "International" corndog day. I'm going to work on changing that, and as god as my witness, you will have a corndog some day.
Thanks Dead Acorn! With you on my side, fighting the good fight, my dream of having a corndog may one day come true!!
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