This past weekend, I set about on a minor social experiment with Eugene Dick and Luigi DiSaronno to examine the Brooklyn hipster in its natural element. I found my tightest pair of jeans, made sure my shoes had enough holes in them, threw on the nappiest t-shirt I owned, and made sure I smelled sufficiently enough like shit before jumping on the L-train to Williamsburg to track a rare/pathetic breed, the elusive
Brooklyn Kickballer. My fellow bloggers and I had heard rumors of an adult kickball league and sought entrance as a way to poke fun at these hapless pseudo-athletes trying to cling to any vestige of their youth. We thought it was going to be quite amusing . . . until we got there.
The local haunt for this sad-breed of humanoid was none other than the
Turkey’s Nest, a neighborhood dive bar on North 12th and Bedford. To create an adequate mental picture, imagine high ceilings, a cosmopolitan mixture of dapper patrons, marble floors, courteous bartenders, and a bevy of exotic cocktails. Now throw out that mental image and picture the stench of stale beer, warped wooden floors, denizens dressed from the finest offerings at the local Goodwill Store, flat beer in Styrofoam cups, and the shittiest $6 margarita imaginable. Now fellow readers, I’m all for dive bars and consider myself no snob when it comes to getting drunk, but I usually prefer to have my drinking experiences devoid of dirty dogs trying to hump my legs and
washed-up alcoholic has-beens that probably still live with their parents.
Ok, back to the topic. Eugene, Luigi, and I attempt to infiltrate this league to flex our inherent superiority over these grizzled 30-somethings. I approach the organizer, whom we shall call Kelvin Cock for anonymity purposes (think an unattractive
Dave Attell (that has to be a paradox by the way)) who immediately takes me to the back of the bar where I think I will begin the registration process. False. Mr. Diamond starts into an incoherent rant (judging by the glossiness of his eyes and bits of Styrofoam caught in his man scruff, he had enjoyed more than his fair share of stale beer that evening) about the ethos of the league, the all-inclusive nature he is attempting to foster, and the community building he is trying to promote. Sounds great, inspirational, compelling. Then he tells me the league is full and that registration is finished. What the fuck? So I just wasted an hour and a half of my Sunday coming to this shitbox to listen to a rambling speech by a guy fellating himself over a kickall league? As a result, Eugene, Luigi, and I rolled out of the dingy nest truly bitter, with Luigi and Eugene contemplating bombing Williamsburg in much the same manner
they had blown up Bond Street a few weeks earlier.
As a result, we here at the Dblog are now proposing an alternative to the Brooklyn Summer Kickball League. Instead of commuting over to Williamsburg every Sunday night, our faithful readership will now scour local elementary schoolyards throughout Manhattan on a daily basis looking for kids to push into puddles, administer
swirlies to, and generally bully in an attempt to revisit the glory days of . . . 4th grade? We shall be an all-inclusive organization (excluding everyone older than 30, that smells/looks like a dumpster, and takes trivial things too seriously) with no registration window, no sign-up fees, and no rules. The only true pillar of our organization will be our motto:
If you make a child cry, everyone wins. We have already begun actively recruiting through our
sister-site and hope to expand our current enrollment to 1000 teams (though we may subject our maximum occupancy to arbitrary rules set on a whim depending on how drunk we get). Come one, come all and enjoy a summer of children’s tears, bruised kneecaps, toilet-soaked heads, and swollen egos. Who needs kickball, Brooklyn,
Kelvin Cock, overcompensating for our unathletic youths, burgeoning alcoholism, and a general lack of hygiene? Exactly! I’d rather make a child weep sweet, sweet tears.
