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You may recall that in Week 2's Field Notes, the words "Stilettos" and "respectability" were used in the same paragraph, and yet surprisingly, as of Week 4 the space-time continuum of our universe remains intact. On this day however, any notion of a new and improved Stilettos went down the toilet as hastily as the Guerilla Gardeners' stash during a DEA raid. The prom dress was quite literally off this game by the second inning - and to the fit honey at first base who did the honors, feel free to dial up ol "Rhymes-With" Horatio anytime at 1-800-4-VISHNU. Thanks to the late inning insertion of some man-meat (into their lineup, silly!) the Stilettos were able to stave off the embarrassment of swallowing a shutout, instead opting for a slightly more dignified 29-run moneyshot courtesy of our favorite trust-fund scumbags. Bluebloods 30, Stilettos 1 (but still #1 in our hearts) GAME-A-TROIS: The Highlanders vs Cunning, Baffling, Powerful In facing a, seasoned, restaurant-quality team like Cunning-Baffling-Powerful, the Highlanders had the pleasure of experiencing first hand one of the great Celtic proverbs of yore: "Ye can't make chicken salad from chicken shite!" Unfortunately, this did not stop our scotch-sipping friends from trying to make haggis from the latter. And if you've ever tasted haggis, you're halfway towards appreciating the kilt-staining crapfest that was on display in Game 3. It wasn't exactly as if CBP had to be up to |
snuff on this day. Shit, they could've fallen off the wagon, gotten back on, fallen off again, done a Chinese fire drill at the next stoplight, and still of had enough left in the proverbial tank to cruise to victory, or at the very least DUI. The Angus Young couture may be as lame as a paraplegic whorehouse, but at least Cunning-Baffling-Powerful can still be counted on to deliver a good old stadium-rock asskicking when warranted. Ah, leave it to the Highlanders to produce said warrant. You may remember this rag-tag group from last year as Presto! Bitch, when the only "magic" in their play came via pre-game marker-sniffing rituals. This year is shaping up to be no different, and given the physique of the average Highlander, I use the term "shaping up" with the utmost of caution. Atrocious kicking aside, the real tragedy took place on defense, where one "almost!" after another reminded everyone that while close may count with regard to horseshoes and hand grenades, the same does not apply bagpipes and claymores. And with that sentence, I've hereby exhausted all the remaining humor of a Scottish-themed kickball team. Cunning, Baffling, Powerful 7 Highlanders 1 (or something close to that, I wasn't paying attention). FRONT PAGE 1 |
