Rollin' to the Derby

If it seems like all Jeff does lately is drink and tell drunken stories, you’re probably right. He’s a drunken drunkard. (For the evidence, hit up his alcoholic adventures-to-be while visiting childhood friends in the Yay this week at: http://10days10nights.blogspot.com/) I swear I’ll get him help for his problem just as soon as it stops being so damn entertaining.

Well…I must admit, I too, dabble in the carbonated guzzling of a nice smooth 40oz. every now and then. What, however, is the drinking of a foty without the obligatory accompaniment of old school hip hop from the early 90’s to get your head noddin’. Cracking the fridge we found two chilled bottles of liquid bread eyeballing us, tempting our taste buds…wait, let me back up a minute, or 4320.8 to be exact. These two beauties, icy sweat beading on their glistening surfaces, had been sitting in my refrigerator for a little over 3 days. The original plan being that we were going to score some herbage and brew, get stoned and drunk, and watch the greatest film to come out of our era. Just in case you have a horrible fucking taste in movies, I’m referring to Goonies. Needless to say, the plan was dashed by our lack of pot connections, and the two forties I had purchased for the event continued to sit lonely and unused on the top shelf, partially encased in their damp brown paper bags.

Fast forward to the past present: We cracked them shits…Old English Brand “800”…anybody have a clue what the “800” refers to? My theory is that it refers to the number of hours the guys and I spent playing Goldeneye back in high school while gurping OldE. One shot, one kill, pistols in the Basement. Reid and I were goddamn assassins, always neck and neck in the bloody outcomes. Brian couldn’t have been a worse shot if he had his fingers melted off with acid. But, I digress…

The soundtrack, in order of execution…Jeff popped in the Slam soundtrack, I fired back with Nas’ Illmatic, and we ended the murky malted fluids transfusion with a tribute to Old Dirty Bastard: Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version. We proceeded to pour the remainders out for those who departed the world before their time, then jumped in the car (don’t worry Mom, Kes drove), shouting out lyrics to Wu Tang’s 36 Chambers. I was still trying to finish the last verse of Protect Ya Neck, when Kes kicked us out at the MAX station (Stumptown’s light rail train) on N. Interstate.

Hanging out waiting for the train to come, assorted extra beers slowly warming in our little hidden nooks and crannies, we noticed a confrontation brewing. A group of teenage girls were getting into the makings of a brawl, screaming curses, acting hard, etc…Feeling nice and perved we were ready for a show. Unfortunately, some fat fuck dressed all in black started yelling at the girls to break it up, getting in the middle of the group to calm things down. Well, let me tell you, I wasn’t about to have a potentially exciting scene diffused so quickly, so I told homeboy to fuck off and leave the kids alone. Walrus ass face turns, and asks, do I have a problem? Umm…yes do-gooder, leave them the fuck alone. “Do you know who I am?” No, and I don’t give a fuck. “I’m with Homeland Security.” Let me see your badge. “I don’t have to. Do you really want to push it, pal?” You’re full of shit, let me see your badge. Let me see your gun. “Don’t worry, I have a .40 caliber pistol under my jacket.” At this point, I didn’t really want to temp fate any further, and A) get shot by some psycho small-dick who thinks he’s Homeland Security, or B) wind up bleeding and unconscious in Guantanamo Bay getting my asshole probed my CIA agents. So I switched gears and mellowed out, bombarding him with questions about his job…turns out he gets to carry around an automatic machine gun and search grain ships from Israel, he gets paid less than I do, and he’s never found any weapons of mass destruction. Just thought I’d ask him if he’s seen the ones Bush was talking about, since they never did turn up in Iraq. Jeff and I thanked him for making us feel safe and secure, reminded him not to forget to stock up on duct tape, then boarded the train heading to North Portland. Some nosy girl kept badgering us to tell her what the guard and I had been talking about. For the remainder of the trip we busied ourselves with analyzing and picking apart this one sad lonely child-molester who grew up friendless and abused in a small town house and now finds solace in reading terrible novels, dressing the part of the Hipster, and wishing he had joined Homeland Security when it was the cool thing to do.

The Doors opened and we had arrived…the time was upon us, and Roller Derby was calling. The Rose City Rollers are now in their second season, and are sparking a revival of the brutal female sport. This is our latest obsession. We enter the coliseum and are greeted by the thunderous roar of bloodthirsty savages drunkenly screaming for pain and panties, two things in attendant abundance. If you’ve ever seen Mad Max: Return to the Terrordome, you know how this mob gets down. We quickly ducked into the bathroom to break the seal, beginning the two-minute cycle that comes with every 40oz. consumed. Jeff and I downed our secreted brews, then found seats in the danger zone, which is basically the area of concrete floor immediately surrounding the track, labeled so because of female gladiators that are bound to come crashing into this section at any point of the match…There are four teams, two participating in each match up, with about 15 women on each side. Each team has a mascot. Jeff’s favorite is Axl Rosa, the cross dressing male mascot for the Guns n’ Rollers. He grosses almost everyone out. He reminds us of our friend Reid for some reason. The other teams are as follows: the Break Neck Betties, the High Rollers, and the Heartless Heathers. These are some of the toughest looking women I have ever seen…we’re talking skull fracture and broken bones cuteness. I won’t get into the details of how the game is played out, but I will say it is fucking awesome. Kicking, elbowing, tripping, and spitting are all illegal moves that are practiced at a near constant rate. Dave Chappelle is the referee, and the Score Whore presents the score to the spectators while dressed as a whore, obviously. Pabst Blue Ribbon is the main sponsor, though it’s 6 bucks per plastic cup of piss, to which I say get faded beforehand. Well, not much more to report…lost a bet to Jeff and had to buy us a round of the worst hot dogs I’ve ever ingested, ran into an old friend of Kes’ from Humboldt, and watched Jeff make out with Axl Rosa in the bleachers. (Sorry Green, I couldn’t resist.)

The match over, our buzz quickly died away, as did the story…