The NBA season has ended, and the nation’s alcoholics are scrambling to find a new excuse to be drunk and belligerent. Football season has always been the crown jewel of obnoxious inebriates everywhere, but summer sports are more lacking in testosterone, making the excuses for punting one’s dog across the yard or having angry shouting matches with girlfriends outside bars far less enjoyable.
Baseball has always been the chosen sport to complement the professional alcoholic’s flaccid summer months, but the length of the games and slow pace of the action makes drunkards drowsy, leading to fewer incidents of cats being thrown against walls or children being angrily shouted at for routine behavior. With the national average for drunken beatings plummeting three years in a row, the group is considering other sports.
“I like that game where everyone wears nice slacks and has a tiny slave carry their bag DANNY YOU ASS, DON’T YOU TALK TO THAT SKANK! I’LL CUT THAT GIRL’S FACE SO BAD YOU’LL THINK SHE HAD A C-SECTION THROUGH HER MOUTH! GODDAMN IT, DANNY! I’LL KEY YOUR TRANS-AM AND PISS IN THEM LEAKY T-TOPS YOU GOOFY LOOKIN’ SACK OF SHIT!” said Mallory Thomas, a 38-year-old telemarketer from Superior. “I told him. I’m done with his type. He always – oh God I feel sick – he always touching baes without asking me. I got like ten dudes ready to line up right in a row, one after the other next time he makes me mad. God, I love him. Danny, come here! Give momma some beef.”
“I love you pookie boo!” slurred Danny, spitting his chewing tobacco into his hand before suctioning his mouth over the entire lower half of his girlfriend’s face.
Professional golf has always been the world’s favorite violent summer sport, but alcoholics in the United States have been slow to accept it. Even with the countless fatalities and brutally violent beatings littered throughout each PGA Tour event, there seems to be nothing golfers can do to win over America’s most hardcore tosspots.
Douglas Glas, president of The Wankers, a vicious gang of obese middle-aged golf hoodlums in Scotland, said his crew of half-functioning inebriates have never had a problem beating their loved ones with reckless abandon while watching golf on TV.
“What more do Yanks want from televised golfing?” said Glas. “The action is nonstop, the crowds are full of psychopaths, golf fans literally kill one another with handmade shivs they’ve decorated with their favorite golfer’s corporate brand of choice. One golfer even got fined for viciously humiliating an opponent’s caddy by replacing his white visor with a slightly off-white visor. Golf is full of testosterone, blatant violence and uncomfortably homoerotic overtones. It’s perfect for American men. I don’t get it.”
American boozers say the lack of breaks in the golfing action is the problem. With cameras constantly cutting from one golfer to the next, fans have no time to grab additional beers or angrily shove other bargoers into walls for glancing at their girlfriends. American lushes just can’t get over their deep love affair with football’s endless commercial breaks.
“It’s fuggin’ great, they start the game – SHUT UP JENNA, I AIN’T NO PATIENCE FOR EMOTIONS,” said Todd Dinkman, a 43-year-old Kmart manager from Duluth. “And then there’s a break for GoDaddy titty commercials and I can chug two or three beers. Then they do the kickoff and – JENNA, I SWEAR TO THE HOLY GHOST IF YOU DON’T PUT THEM MOSQUITO BITES AWAY I’M GONNA REDDIT THEM ON THE FRONT PAGE – and then right after the kickoff there’s another break for Carl’s Jr titty commercials so I can chug a few more while taking a leak and looking up fantasy stats on my phone. Golf is too fast-paced. I can’t no-hander a piss while doing all that. I don’t got nothing against golf, it’s just logistics, bro.”
The term “logistics” is a phrase Dinkman learned from UPS commercials that air roughly 27 times during each professional football game.
Despite its downtrending popularity, baseball does provide benefits to drinkers. The ungodly long season does offer a lot of time for getting hammered.
Ken Clark, a Minnesota Twins fan from Bovey, likes to pass the summer months by not watching the team’s depressing games and instead repeatedly jabbing himself in the forearm with a shattered beer bottle. Every day he sees how many times he can stab himself before passing out, and then the next day he briefly views the box scores before trying to beat that record.
“Seven hundred and twelve! Gahhhhhhhhh!” screamed Clark, thrusting a glass shard into his arm after the team’s latest 16-3 loss. “Good lord, when will this boring sport end? 182 friggin’ games? I’m running out of arm! When will it be over!? Why is alcohol a natural disinfectant? Why won’t God just let me die? Am I still alive because the Vikings are going to win the Super Bowl?”
While they most certainly are not, endlessly flatulent drunks everywhere only have a few short months of endurance before football season begins anew. Until then, they’ll just have to keep suffering through a difficult daily schedule of getting recklessly plastered and passing out to the sound of Bert Blyleven’s accidental cursing.