D-162: Bowl Homage Deux - Return of the Throw-Up Ninja

All right, we’re talking football on the message boards! That is most welcome, even if it was instigated by my cousin’s embarrassing ignorance. That man gave me pants, when it was pants that I needed the most, so all is forgiven – I will have to share that story sometime, but for now let’s stick with football.

This will be my second football season “underway,” and I am pleased to say that AFN football coverage is actually very good. Sadly, I will not be getting the PSU game (I will likely get next week’s game against Oregon State) but AFN will show many other games, followed by replays of yet more games throughout the week, including abbreviated versions in which they just play from snap to down and cut out all the other shit. It is pretty great, and once NFL kicks off, you can more or less watch a football game at all times, day or night. Brett Favre is a Jet and I am very excited.

I have four fantasy football teams, one of which has already drafted and I the proud owner of PSU legend (and Pop Tart pal – another story for another time) Larry Johnson of Kansas City. I know many people argue that Fantasy Football is akin to Dungeons and Dragons for jocks; but those derogatory statements are usually made by nerds who play Dungeons and Dragons and mistakenly think they are finally going to receive the inclusion that they have so desperately sought throughout their lifetime. Sad news dork, fantasy football is still football related and therefore still awesome; you are still a social pariah.

Hey! Speaking of social pariahs, how about another Bowl story?

Recently, the Jewish Giants fan lucked into the Jets season tickets of which I am the rightful heir; they actually belong to my in-laws, but they are very generous with the distribution and my friends and I have long been very grateful, as we have sat in those amazing eighteenth row seats at the Meadowlands more times than I can count. One time stands out; vaguely.

There are gaps in this story, as they correlate to alcohol induced gaps in my memory, so try to stay with me. I want to say it was one of the last home games of the 2005 season, but according to the internet, that would make it a December 26^th game against the Patriots or a January 1^st game versus Buffalo. I don’t remember it being that close to a major holiday, but it is plausible that I spent the holiday in Philly, then picked up Bowl-Knockers in Manhattan and busted a U-Turn back to East Rutherford. I am leaning towards that Pats game, because I remember laughing my ass off at a bunch of rowdy Jets fans who were throwing hot dogs at clueless sorority girl wearing one of those pink on pink Tom Brady jerseys; hilarious. However, for some reason I want to say that I was with Bowl the day before the game watching Texas play Oklahoma at a bar and subsequently being kicked out of a cigar store… whatever, two things are certain; we drink too much and I went to a Jets game with Bowl.

Naturally, Bowl and I thought the time “TBD” on our tickets meant 1:00PM, because football starts at 1:00PM… right? Well, it made sense to both of us because we left early enough to get a good spot in the lot, and showed up at Giants Stadium around 11:00AM. We were the first people to show, and I mean the first, there were not even people at the gate to the lot to collect the outrageous $10 parking fee! The place was deserted!

If Bowl and I are anything, we are flexible – this was a minor setback; determined to make the best of it, we turned around and set off to find a New Jersey supermarket in which to purchase beer. East Rutherford is a barren shithole, so we were having a devil of a time finding one. We stopped for an egg sandwich, and then finally found an establishment that sold beer. Bowl rejoiced, “Commerce does exist here, we will have beer!” Knowing we had a lot of time to kill, and determined to not ever have to repeat this trip (confident we would never find our way back), we thought it prudent to buy a lot of beer.

Ask yourself this; what is bigger than a can of beer? If you answered “a pounder,” you are right! Now ask yourself; what delicious beer is most often found in this magnificent 16-ounce brother of the can? If you answered “Busch Lite,” you are either a redneck, or have been to college.

Well, just how many 16-ounce Busch Pounders does it take for two people to kill five hours? If you answered “24,” congratulations – you may be eligible to party with the champs!

By the time we returned to the parking lot, we were armed with a case of Busch Pounders, a Styrofoam cooler, and over four hours until kickoff. Things were looking good. I donned my ceremonial Curtis “My Favorite” Martin replica Jersey (still in use) and Ole’ Bowl chose his #88 Wayne Chrebet home jersey – an excellent choice. We went to work on the Busch.

Well, the next few hours are blurry. Once other people started to arrive, we met up with some friends and got some much need barbecue. Not only did we kill all of our Busch, but we had a few Miller Lites as well. It goes without saying, that by the time we navigated our way to our seats, we were good and hammered drunk. We ordered our first $8.00 plastic bottle of Miller Lite, and settled in for some football.

About four minutes into the first quarter, the Jets looked horrible and so did Bowl. His head was hanging low in the half passed out position, and there was clearly nobody home; I ignored him and went on watching the game. Finally, Bowl would not be ignored; his head snapped upright, and then bent back down quickly. I stared in absolute astonishment as Bowl projectile vomited a wide stream of disgusting liquid at an uncanny force. It hit the cement beneath his seat and splattered in every direction. The fans in the surrounding seats jumped and trampled over each other to escape the fragmentation area of Bowl’s regurgitated Busch. Fans from other sections and upper levels were pointing over the side and laughing, fans from our section were not laughing.

I just sat there and gawked; I was drunk and up to my knees in puke. What I thought was going to be an eternal geyser of barf finally ceased; Bowl recovered, stood up as if to take a bow, looked me directly in the eyes, turned and left the stadium. What he left behind, the English language is far too limited to describe. All eyes were now on me – these are aisle seats, so I couldn’t even try to blend in with a different group, everyone was pissed, and everyone wanted to know what “the puker’s friend,” as I was now known to 70,000 people, was going to do about this disaster. I took out my wallet, bought two $6.00 Aquafinas to wash away some of the more disgusting chunks, and 5 $8.00 beers, one for myself and one for the four people who were most adversely affected by the “incident.” This diffused the situation temporarily, although I did continue to buy beer for the two gentlemen sitting directly in front of me for the rest of the evening, but what really won their hearts was that I spent the next several hours telling everyone embarrassing stories about Bowl and assuring them that he did this kind of thing all the time, and that yes, he likely has a very small penis.

Major X addresses the Company XOs at a meeting, regarding their inability to accurately report their vehicles mileage:

“These are exactly the kinds of little ass hamsters that can morph into big problems later on!”

D-170: An Homage to Bowl: Worst Party Guest

One football Saturday Senior year, we were throwing a party that we had billed as the biggest party ever for the previous two weeks. Two weeks was an eternity in terms of party promotion at our house, often giving notice any earlier than a day or two prior to the party date led to an unmanageable crowd showing up and kicking the kegs by midnight, so we intended for this one to be a blowout.

In preparation, we obtained seven kegs and three taps; the idea was to have a keg flowing on each floor of the house to minimize waiting time. The upstairs kitchen was set up for beer-pong, the living room had the kegerator and was cleared of all furniture save the stereo to facilitate dancing, with ambiance generated from the gaudiest colored light disco ball that Spencer Gifts had to offer. The full, unfurnished basement, our traditional party venue, held yet another beer-pong table and stereo, and some odd remnants of old couches and chairs. We were ready to jam.

Typically, the guests at these sorts of affairs began to pore in around 10:00PM, and the place was filled to a capacity that was a slap in the face to the Fire Marshall by 11:00. I was just finishing up my shower when big Golden Girls loving bowl arrived at 8:30. I have known Bowl many a year, and have seen him in every stage of drunkenness, but this particular evening he was in the rarest of form. He proudly informed us that unlike we pussies, he had not stopped drinking since the football game! And not only had he kept it going, but he singlehandedly put away an ungodly amount of some whiskey or something – I cannot recall exactly because his speech was already slurred beyond comprehension.

I went into my bedroom to get dressed, while Bowl informed me once again that I was a pussy, and pulled a beer from the kegerator. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs that were scattered around the house. When I emerged from my room approximately eight minutes later, he was slumped in the chair, head hanging low over his nearly untouched beer. I laughed, and shouted “Bowl!” to wake him up. Upon waking, he calmly set down his beer, got up, and staggered into the bathroom, where he remained for quite some time.

I thought nothing of it, and continued helping my five roommates with the party preparations. I left the room briefly, and when I came back, I started to wonder about Bowl. I rapped a few times on the bathroom door, and heard no answer so assumed he had fallen asleep on the can. I opened the door – nothing in my life had prepared me for what I saw at that point.

Predictably, Bowl had puked. Not only did he puke, but he literally covered every surface in the room with his vomit. There was a trail of bright pink slime from the door to the toilet, it covered the outside of the toilet, it was in the tub, it was on the walls. There were footprints all over the floor, and handprints on the sink, and on the mirror. It appeared as if girl from the exorcist had visited our bathroom. Bowl was no longer present; he painted the room in barf and vanished like a throw-up ninja.

I was dumbfounded; the magnitude of the disaster left me in a state of catatonic shock. The stench alone took my breath away. I just stared, until Schwartz came over, took one look, and walked away laughing. But not haha laughing; laughing with despair.

The only solution I could manage was to close the door and walk away. I was content with just locking it, maybe putting some police caution tape across the door, and never using that room again. There was another bathroom upstairs, and we encouraged guests to pee in the large laundry sink in the basement; surely that would be sufficient for the five hundred party-goers who would be arriving in less than an hour. What else could I do?

Unsatisfied with this solution, Schwartz’s girlfriend took one for the team, gripped a mop, and cleaned the whole room. If she hadn’t, I assure you no one would have.

Thanks for coming to our party Bowl, and bringing with you a hurricane of disgusting destruction.