The Last Game

Yeah yeah, I know this is really late in coming, but fuck all ya’ll haters it’s here.

It all started at our drink establishment of choice: Game Works. What a very fine and very underrated drinking facilitator. Their drinks are as stiff as any , and most importantly, cheap. They have happy hour drink specials on game days. Not all places have happy hour drink specials on game days. That just tickles my tummy. Thea was our waitress. She loves us. Every time we are there while she is working, we get hooked up. Let me rephrase that… we get hooked up FAT. She typically bills us about half of what it should cost. Couple that with already half priced drinks and I’ll let you do the math. In turn, she gets huge tips. Honestly, it’s really a win-win situation for everyone involved. We get hammered and she gets money. Oh, and she’s really hot. Like… Smoking. Pistol. Hot. I really do heart Game Works. Maybe she knew it was the last game of the season and figured we would need extra booze to watch suffer through this game, I don’t know. But I sit down and she hits me up with a Jack and Coke in a 16 oz (at least) cup. It was light on the Coke. Just the way I like it. Bonk soon joins me and we commence getting our drink on. I’m not entirely sure how many of those massive drinks I had there for 25% of the normal price, but I think four is probably a pretty good guess. We were late for the game because we decided to pound one down before leaving. So yeah, I think four. We bid Thea sweet ado’s and head out. Who knows when we will be seeing her again, but it can’t come soon enough. It honestly can’t. I am even debating going to Lynx games for the sole fact that we can get hammered at Game Works before hand. That’s a big step for me. It makes the games more bearable and the women (slightly) hotter.

So we literally stumble on over to the Target Center to endure the last game shit festival of the season. Honestly, let me just warn you. I don’t remember much anything that actually happened in the game itself. Not that you care right? I’m pretty sure you aren’t reading this for game analysis, that’s for damn sure. Fuck, I wouldn’t be if I were you. The Wolves suck.

Lucky for us (and unlucky for them) in our drunken stupor we did remember that we were meeting up with Mpls Dice and some friends to watch the game with them. Seating was... how do I put this... Not an issue. We found the herd and joined them. For better or worse my mind seems to have blocked out actual game highlights. Honestly, the only thing I remember from the game was halftime and the Fire McFale dudes in the picture above getting kicked out. At some point we got our picture taken by the Fan Action Foto homo. I only know that because I found the little ticket claim thingy in my pocket the next day. The picture is not very flattering, so I won’t be posting it. If you know how to find it and what we look like, I think it is in Gallery TC-17 on the Fan Action Foto site. I’ll leave the rest to you.

Halftime was fun. Or drunk. Whichever sounds cooler. Needing to replenish our seemingly endless thirst for liquor, Bonk and I head to NBA City at halftime. We got hooked up by our NBA City waitress (for the first time in a while goddamnit!) Being that it was the last game of the season, we decided we should do it up right and down some delightfully delicious Hennessey. That’s the drinking man’s drink right there. Not sure how much I had to pay, but it wasn’t anywhere near the full price… I remember that much. And it rightfully shouldn’t be, for how much bread we spend there. Bonk then ordered us up some Southern Comfort shots which were… um… on the house. Having temporarily satisfied our hunger for alcohol, we ventured back into the arena. I think SILENT ABABU was with us at this time, but I honestly don’t remember. God bless his heart.

Speaking of the SILENT One, Bonk and I had a discussion the other day. On top of being completely deaf and almost completely mute, Bonk thinks he is illiterate. How about that for a triumvirate! I don’t think so, but I think he might be on to something. He has some very valid points. First off, when “talking” to him, he never seems to be able to lip read anything we say that is not sports related. (Such as anything other than team and player names, for example.) When he is ghetto signing something to us and we don’t understand, he always writes on his arm. Except, he never writes out names or words. It’s always very few letters or numbers. And if we write something out to him on our appendages, he never seems to be able to understand. Fuckin A, the more I think about the more I think that crazy cat IS illiterate. I can’t fuckin believe it. Well… I can, but damnit! Oh well, his being illiterate has no bearing on the infinite amounts of fun we always have while hanging out and partying with him. He actually gave me his phone number too, being that it was the last game of the season. I’m not sure what the fuck is going to happen if I ever call that number? He obviously can’t answer it. Will my phone explode? Do I have to talk to one of those fuckin Deaf Relay Operators? I think I’m banned from using their services from all the pranks we did during our college heydays. Bonk and I are partly under the impression that he might live with an actual woman, so perhaps she answers the phone? God knows, but I’m kinda scared to call that number. Will people in white jackets show up at my door with a black helicopter ready to whisk me away? I think there’s about a 50-50 chance. Fuckin ABABU. I’m gonna miss him. We’ve got so many more things to do with him that we never got a chance to do. I hope he doesn’t migrate to another city before the next NBA season.

The next major event that got my attention (and it was major or I wouldn’t have remembered it) was the two “Fire McFale” guys getting kicked out of the game. It’s funny because they were being calm and simply standing up with their little signs. Not yelling or causing a ruckus, just holding up their signs. Of course, the security treats it like a chemical bomb threat and absolutely man handles those poor fans. Ironically, (or not) it was the same fat, bald security guard giving them fits that hates Bonk and I. Weird, huh? A bunch of power hungry Tom Dumbstrom’s if you ask me. Yeah, I get the fact that you are probably going to kick the guys out of the game, but if they aren’t being unruly, why the fuck the need to molest them? Those poor guys are probably still walking funny after fatty security guard got done with him in the back room. I mean, it was a fucking disgrace. Those two guys, as paying fans (but not for long), should be able to simply show their displeasure about the absolute ass raping of a job Kevin McHale has done as our GM. They were calm and quiet and got treated like someone with a bomb strapped to their chest. Luckily, the cock choking security guards were able to avert that crisis like Jack Bauer stopping 11 nukes within 24 hours. I mean, that could have been a close call. Those guys could have been blocking other paying fans views’ of the game. We wouldn’t want that. I guess if you have any issues with our Front Office you need to silently protest by stewing about it at home, while blogging on the internet or something… hey… wait a second. Nevermind. Or you could just stop going to the games. I’d do the latter, but it’s much more fun getting hammered on game nights and getting to see lower level NBA action for a measly $20 bucks a ticket. You really can’t beat that.

Mercifully, the game finally ended at some point. I had to check the box score the next day to make sure we lost, but fortunately we did. Thankfully that loss coupled with an Eddie Curry tip in at the buzzer (Someone told Eddy there was a free buffet if they won) landed us a tie for sixth seed in the draft. Had those two events not happened, we could have had anywhere from the 8-11th seed I believe, and possibly lost it to the Clippers. I don’t remember off the top of my head, and quite frankly I don’t care. In fact, that’s the last actual analysis (as weak as it may have been) you’ll have to sit through in this column.

After the game we make our way stumble down to the tunnel to bid farewell to the players. It was pretty uneventful, as most everyone was silently walking with their heads down. As if they expected to win or something? I don’t fucking know. I remember being very delighted at the time, so I must have known that we lost and later forgot. Either way. The only highlight from our last tunnel excursion was Justin Reed. He’s the man. We’ve had a plethora of exquisite encounters out with him on the town over the course of the season, and he’s a pretty damn cool guy all things considered. Anyways, he recognized me as he was walking out and stopped to say “Hey man, how ya doin” to which I probably replied something stupid like good game or god knows what, and he gave me a “Aight peace baby” before heading back down the tunnel. Ah, JReed is the shit. He’s always just keepin it real. Definitely one of my top three favorite Wolves, along with Marko and KGizzle. Maybe I’ll call JReed sometime this summer… Or would that be really gay? Ok, I won’t.

On a side note – Something that I just noticed as I was sitting here typing this: Our new neighbors who moved in below just this last weekend like to smoke lots of weed. How do I know that you ask? Well, it’s the second time in two days that I have been able to smell their fine Cali Nuggs wafting up through my floor (seeing as how my apartment is above theirs.) I haven’t yet decided if this is a good or bad thing… but it’s gotta be more good than bad. That’s just my initial guess.

As we were heading out, SILENT ABABU noticed something in the garbage cans. Contrary to your initial thoughts, no it wasn’t leftover food. It was those goddamn “Fire McFale” signs! Hallelujah! God fuckin damn! You’ve gotta be kidding me! I damn near pissed myself with excitement. ABABU just pointed at them and yelped, well I summoned up the courage simply reached in the garbage and pulled them out. Ah, the basketball gods must have been looking out for us tonight. Of all the fuckin people at the Target Center that night, Bonk and I were probably the LAST people Taylor would want to have possession of those signs after the end of the game. With good reason. We snatched up those signs like a crack addict in a poppy field.

I proceeded to march around the outside of the Target Center with the sign held high above my head and Bonk in tow. We were chanting “Fi-re Mc-Hale” as loud as possible. It was quite a sight to behold. Some people were shocked, some kids were in awe, but most people generally supported our Proletarian efforts against the totalitarian regime that is our T-Wolves Country Club. We made two full circuits around the outside of the entire Target Center while marching slowly and surely. We were not to be thwarted. After two gratifying marches around the TC, we saw Mpls Dice and friends hanging out watching us. So we stopped our valiant cause to talk with them for a while. In the meantime, Random Homeless Man Number 1 (notice how I capitalize that proper noun) asked me for a dollar. I told him I would give him a dollar if he continued our “Fi-re Mc-Hale” cause. He did. Very nobly. He was jumping around and yelling and punching the sign. It was quite the spectacle. In fact, it was a dollar so well spent that I gave him the rest of my pocket change. He was eternally grateful. We could still hear him yelling and whatnot while we were walking away. He isn’t homeless due to lack of persistence, that’s for sure.

After that we went looking for something to do. While randomly standing on a street corner, this middle aged man approaches us with congratulations for our “Fire McFale” cause and getting kicked out of the Target Center for doing nothing wrong. We didn’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t us, since he was so appreciative of our efforts. He was quite impressed. We embellished our story about getting “roughed up” by the security guards and may or may not have lied to him about what they “said” to us. That was an interesting 5 minute convo. We saw nothing wrong with leading him on, because honestly, it didn’t matter who the two warriors of justice actually were that got kicked out. It could have been any number of random frustrated fans, much like Bonk and myself. So, that really seemed to make his night and he had quite a few interesting things to say about the Wolves organization himself and kept applauding our efforts. It made me feel really good on the inside. I think all three of us felt warm and fuzzy.

After that we were chilling on another random street corner and Random Homeless Man Number 2 approached me for money. I told him I didn’t have any money (because I didn’t after giving it all away to RHM#1) He seemed very disappointed in me and thought I was lying to him, even though I wasn’t. Well, you know what? I’m goddamn fed up about getting accosted by homeless people with idiotic blatant lies about why they need my fucking hard earned money. Go get a motherfucking job you bums. His excuse for needing money was beyond moronic – something about needing money for his sick brother at home that can’t pay for some lameass surgery that he couldn’t pronounce. And the thing is, he was so blatantly homeless that his effort was laughable. I started yelling at this 50 something year old man about how I was sick and fucking tired of getting bothered about money every goddamn time I go downtown. I got him to admit to me that he was lying (which was hilarious, by the way) and basically told him that he would get more sympathy from me if he just told the fucking truth that he was homeless and needed money. In fact, I’d be more likely to give him money if he just wouldn’t fucking come up with some stupid Tom Dumbstromesque lie. He appreciated my honesty, but wouldn’t leave us the fuck alone. He stuttered and seemed to be drooling a little. I actually think he may be been partially retarded, which obviously didn’t bother me. I felt better getting all that off my chest, to tell you the truth.

Lastly, we somehow met up with another street dweller, who we will call Random Homeless Man #3. For some reason or other he was very articulate and may not actually have been homeless, but who can tell sometimes. We brought He followed us into ‘The Lodge,’ which was just dead. So, the three of us belly up at the bar and proceed to down more sickenly cheap drinks (quarter beers and dollar mixies since it was a Wednesday night.) We even bought this chap drinks on our tab. I think I had a bunch of Red Bull Vodka’s, but I don’t remember. RHM#3 got “whatever I was having” lol. After a good convo about us getting accosted by other random homeless guys (he seemed to be on our side) and something else that was important at the time, but I forget right now, he asked us for money before leaving. Fucking typical.

Anyhow, someone came and picked us up and we made it home safely. I can’t wait to do all this shit again next year.