What, You Couldn’t Let Fourth Grade Go?

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.

A Bond: A Play in Fifty Acts: Act II

Act II: The French Excursion

(Continued from Act I, which was informally known as "La Poutine"



GUY IS HANGING FROM A NOOSE TIED AROUND ONE OF THE EXPOSED BEAMS THAT MAKES UP THIS EXQUISITE CEILING

D IS SMOKING A CIGARETTE, MORE SLOWLY THAN NORMAL PEOPLE. CLOSE TO THE END, SHE FLICKS IT AT THE SWINGING CORPSE

D: Looks like it's checkout time.

SHE TAKES THE REALLY NICE ELEVATOR DOWN TO THE FLOOR CALLED 'L' WHICH MEANS EITHER LOBBY OR LEVEL

D: Hey tuxedo slave, I need a car to your nearest Moroccan restaurant. Let's make this be.

Concierge: I guess I'm lucky. I guess you have luck. I guess luck is. There's a car waiting for you. It's outside.

SHE SWIRLS HER GUN IN THE AIR. RUNS OUTSIDE OF THE HOTEL., POCKETS THE SHAMPOO AND CONDITIONER

D: Salutations driver. Step on it, and step on it.

Car Driver: That's my job. I step on it. And I'm gonna stick to it.

THEY DRIVE WHEREVER THE FUCK THEY'RE GOING. DRIVER IS DRUNK. THEY SIDESWIPE A MOPED. IT'S A VESPA BEING DRIVEN BY A FLORIST. THIS VESPA WAS TERRIBLY TERRIBLY CONSTRUCTED. THE GAS TANK FELL IN THE ROAD AND HIT THE WINDSHIELD OF THE LIMO DRIVER AND ROBBED HIM OF HIS HEAD. THE OCCUPANTS SPILL OUT BECAUSE: WHAT OTHER CHOICE DO THEY REALLY HAVE? NOTHING REALLY. NONE OTHER CHOICE. IS THAT CLEAR? I THINK SO.

D FINDS ANOTHER TAXI BY GUNPOINT

D: Let's go to JFK and step on it. My boyfriend is in Paris and I really love him but he's caught up in the the DJ scene. For this reason, I need your livery services. I need them to be so fast, so so fucking fast. Deep inside of me fast.

Livery Driver: Whatever you want...Pay me and get your white ass to Paris. Good flight...not!

SHE GOES INTO JFK AND CHECKS HER BAGS. SHE HAS ONE CARRY-ON. SHE IS WAITING IN THE SECURITY LINE.

D: I just killed a man. Hurry up. I got a plane to catch. I don't have time for your x-ray. Do I look like I would?

Security Guard: I can call someone. I can make this hard for you.

D: I'm okay. I'll take my time. Sorry, I'm stressed out by air travel.

S: I see it all the time. Nice gun by the way.

D: Thanks, now I'll put my belt back on you professional woman.

SHE BOARDS THE PLANE AND FLIES TO PARIS. SHE GETS OFF THE PLANE AND GETS CAPPED BY HER PSYCHO KILLER BOYFRIEND.

The First Play to be Episodically Published on DiSaronno Blog: A Bond: A Play in Fifty Acts: Act I

Daughter of the Congresswoman and Policeman: I can't believe I just did that. My parents will crucify me in the worst way possible. Jesus christ lof atter day saints.

Guy: Let's just jet off to Montreal

D: How about we peace and steal my parents liqour cabinet and sell it across border for a plus plus premium. Then we'll go to Quebec and enjoy the local foods such as POUTINE.

G: You're driving too fast. We gotta fucking chill out. Fucking coppers are gonna get on our ass in a big way.

THEY PULL INTO A ROADSIDE MOTEL

D: Fuck motherfucker. I lost my keys and wallet, you gotta pay and eat the cost. Swallow that shit and fucking be normal.

G: Don't worry about me, you gotta fucking stop shaking and get outta the car.

THEY CHECK IN

G: This carpet, it's a nightmare.

D: It's my carpet and you must stare upon it.

G PULLS A GUN OUT

D: Why do you always think that we should feel like this?

G: I really wanna kill someone tonight. It's gonna be you or the inkeeper. Make your choice. The choice belongs.

D DOES A BACKFLIP OUT THE WINDOW. SHE ESCAPES, KILLS AN INKEEPER, WALKS UPSTAIRS TO THE ROOM, THE DOOR OF WHICH SHE KICKS IN

D: Wow that was roundabout. Why don't we just get a room at the Four Seasons?

THEY CROSS A DEAD BODY IN THE LOBBY, HAIL A CAB, AND JET TO THE FOUR SEASONS WHERE THEY BOTH ORDER WHITE RUSSIANS

D: We really fucked that up. How about you pay more attention to me Phillip?

G: My name is not Phillip. I do know my name.

D: I do know knowledge. My boots are wet. I'm actually writing a book right now. And you don't know what it's about, but we just kill someone together. And we have a bond, a slight bond.

G: I know who you are. I saw you on the plane from Caracas. Granted I drugged you, but then we shared a life together. A fucking goddamn life. And now you're here and we gotta deal with it, so let's fucking think. So get your belongings and let's travel throughout restaurants.

D: Fuck yeah!

G: Yes rather than yeah.