By Horatio Vishnu, Interim Field Reporter
PKL Palmyra Field Office
July 7th, 2007
Aldo Freda Field, Olneyville
Holy Rollers vs Road Warriors
On this, the fourth weekend of this young, nubile PKL season in the year MMVII of the Lord, the fog lifted, the clouds parted, and the sun doth shone upon the fortunes of the blessed Holy Rollers. Ironically, and much to the delight of the many sadomasochists amongst the Hyperdome faithful, the Road Warriors all too willingly took it where the sun doth not shine. For fifteen brilliant, blinding, virginal-white minutes, it was as if the Penetrator had left the PKL in name only.
You see, apparently these two teams failed to receive the memo that they were here to play the brand of hard-nosed, 'Gansett-fuelled, smashmouth, knockdown, drag-out kickball we've come to expect from the PKL. Instead the Ghost of Aldo Freda was blasphemed by perhaps the shortest game in this reporter's recent memory (full disclosure: I smoke mad chronic). For fuck's sake, the end of the fifth came quicker than Mad Dog in the back of an El Camino circa 1983. This of course left our esteemed commentators with the awkward predicament of filling dead air for the next 45 minutes or so. Sure, this was something former Kommissioner and Eagle's Nest legend Stan McNabb would routinely pull off with both hands tied behind his back and man-package in a vise grip (believe me, I've seen it). But could Romaine Jackson & Co. fill
those size-14 Reebok Pumps? After the unabridged chronology of Romaine's love life followed by 44 minutes of iPod in party-shuffle mode, we had our answer.
Due to a poorly-timed blink, this field reporter can only comment on roughly one-third of that which actually transpired in Game 1. The Road Warriors came dressed in what was either (a) a brilliant send-up of vintage mid-period Daggers attire, or (2) the fruits of a dumpster-diving excursion behind the wardrobe trailer from Escape from L.A. I was tempted to say Escape from New York; but we want to leave them with something to strive for next game, don't we? In any event, calling their performance both on the field and at the plate "piss-poor" would actually be doing a disservice to the reputation of piss. Our post-apocalyptic brethren learned the hard way that whilst that shit might go over in the Thunderdome, the Hyperdome ain't havin' it girlfriend.
Meanwhile, the Holy Rollers moved with the fluidity of Jesus Tap-dancing Christ himself on water. With the game securely in hand, and both the evening and their sexual interests still young, the good pontiff and his clergy grabbed some communion wine, speed-dialed their cache of willing altar boys, and hastily departed for a proper post-game celebration. If that rectory's a-rockin', don't come a knockin'!
Methinks it was Holy Rollers 6, Road Warriors 1.
Stilettos vs. Eastside Bluebloods
Imagine, if you will, the Stilettos' collective excitement when they were told they'd be
playing the most "well-endowed" team in the PKL. Hint: if they were away at summer camp (incidentally, my Stiletto Fantasy No. 8), there'd be nary a dry bunk in the cabin. Now imagine their reaction when they found out they were, in fact, playing that silver spoon-fellating assemblage of douche enthusiasts known as the Eastside Bluebloods. This set off an internal struggle not seen since the heyday of the Today Sponge: would the Stilettos' longing for a first taste of PKL victory propel them to yet more semi-competent play, or would they revert to their old gold-digging tendencies implicit in every lower back tattoo? More importantly, who gives a flying fuck?
As Providence's most young, urban, and professional team, the EBBs took to the pitch with swollen egos, bank accounts, and, forgetting to refill their Valtrex prescription, genitals. Whereas the Blueblood women arrived appropriately dressed for a stroll down Rodeo Drive, the men strode in looking more like cast rejects from Weekend at Bernie's 2. Their nouveau-riche on-field establishment, Chez Blueblood, featured enough nose candy to fuel a Willy Wonka Wacky Weekend Bender(™) thrice over. None of this really mattered however, as one could have easily substituted valium for blow (which in fact, they often do) and the course of the game would have strayed neither port nor starboard. No, on this Saturday the Stilettos would be assuming the position of Captain to the Blueblood's Tennille.
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