*The thoughts and views expressed by Ronald McDonald do not in any way represent those of the bartenders here at the Saloon. Except maybe Tommy Buzanis.It's Ronald bitch.
(Singing) They tried to make me go to rehab, I said (vomit burp)...fuck you. You motherfucker. You thought I was going to sing that Amy Winehouse song. No way. Funny story. I slept with her once. And by 'slept', I mean 'pumped', but you probably figured that out already you sick son of a bitch. I digress. Her nickname for me was 'Big Mac', not so much because I represent McDonalds but because of my giant cock* and the fact that I was linked to Mark McGwire's steroid abuse. I would like to confirm the cock* thing and deny the McGwire rumor. For the record, Mark and I were merely 'golf buddies' and remain so to this day.
The Cubs game. I watched it from a smoky dive bar in Albuquerque, wearing my homemade Jeff Pico jersey (A ratty white t-shirt with the word 'Pico' emblazoned across the chest in permanent marker). As is my M.O., I refuse to wear pants during the last month of a pennant race. This, coupled with my giant red afro, unbearable body odor and five days worth of stubble gives me the distinct appearance of an insane homeless man. I find that this look is helpful for negating mindless and unneeded small talk. One old timer asks if I am Gene Shalit. I deny this baseless accusation, but upon further badgering agree to autograph the bill of his feed cap. I draw a penis on it and write "Gene Shalit says...Your life story makes me sad!"
I'm on my fourth Whiskey Sour when, BOOM, Cliff Huxtable belts a solo blast. The city of Albuquerque goes deathly silent, save for a well timed fart on my part. I start a 'Thunder Matt' chant. One of the old alcoholics slumped by the jukebox, Audrey, joins me in the chant. She clearly has no idea why she is chanting but I encourage her anyway. Another round on Uncle Ronnie!
Carlos Zambrano brought his 'A' game. Rick Ankiel steps to the plate. I start a
'H-G-H!' chant. Audrey soon follows suit. Carlos, fat off a steady diet of Chicken McNuggets and inner rage, fans Rick Ankiel, bringing me to my feet and the woman under me off of her knees.
Derrick May...oh wait, I'm being told by Audrey it was actually Daryle Ward...clears the bases with a double. I get so excited that I start a impromptu 'wave'. This turns out to be a bad idea, as I have been drinking heavily and it would appear that my balance is impaired. I tumble off of my barstool, landing on Aubrey. ("Goddammit Aubrey! I don't even know you anymore!")
The Cubs are leading going into the ninth and everything seems right with the world. Then Ryan Dempster appears out of no where, like a cold cock** to the temple. I am nervous, but with a 5-1 lead I feel confident enough to order a round of Apple Pucker shots in anticipation of the victory. Dempster gives up a home run to Jim Eisenreich...oh wait, I'm once again being corrected by Audrey and told that it was Jim Edmonds. ("Aubrey, I don't know whether to thank you or slap you. Is it Aubrey or Audrey? You don't even know do you? Jesus, get a hold of yourself. You're an embarrassment. No, you shut your mouth!")
Back to the game. I'm getting nervous so I send a quick text message to Charles Grodin. I won't go into what I wrote him but suffice it to say he wrote back 'Fuck you.' Ryan Ludwick then homers. My life is on a downward spiral. Make that Pucker shot a double. Lou comes out and takes the ball from Dumpster, mouthing "I love you but I hate you", his eyes welling with tears. The Cardinals then proceed to load the bases against Bobby Howry, who's balance on the mound is clearly effected by the 16 necklaces that he wears. Who is he, Mr. T? I start to fear that I'm going to need to get 'blackout drunk' to erase the memory of another painful loss. Alas, the day is saved by Aaron Miles who taps out weakly to end the game.
I stand atop the bar and ask for a moment of silence. I begin to stomp my foot and clap at the same time. The crowd is skeptical at first, but given their lack of education and the dangerous amount of alcohol flowing through their bloodstreams, they are quickly won over. They start to clap their hands and stomp their feet as well, though their lack of timing and apparent inability to do them both in unison frustrate me. I question aloud whether or not that are all literally retarded. None-the-less the moment can only be described as 'poignant'. I launch into an a capella version of 'Go Cubs Go', imploring the crowd to sing along with me during the chorus but shhhing them during the verses. ("Audrey, you're fucking it up!")
Then someone throws a quarter in the jukebox and hits G7. 'Baba O'Reilly' penetrates the one working speaker in the bar. Giddy with excitement I jump up, forgetting I'm still atop the bar. I land badly on a rogue shot glass half filled with Apple Pucker and tumble off the bar, landing awkwardly on Audrey. She is suspiciously silent and I fear that I may have killed her. Hoping that no one noticed, I shove her limp body back against the jukebox. I think I need microfracture surgery and may be out of the year. This is not good at all, though I remain optimistic of the Cubs chances. Like the cancer patient who conquers their disease with positive thinking, I will conquer my torn tendon with thoughts of a sustained Cubs playoff run.
(Stream of consciousness in head) Hopefully the hospitals in Albuquerque get WGN. Can you still smoke in hospitals? One would imagine. Hopefully Grodin texts me game updates. Shit, was it Aubrey or Audrey? Go Cubs Go.
*Cock = Rooster
*Yep, for the sake of our younger readers, 'rooster' again.
**Cock = Punch
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