Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Jon Danger Hirsch Doesn’t Give a Fuck About Drake

Jon Danger Hirsch doesn’t give a fuck about Drake. Or the beaten-like-a-dead-donkey story of the “high cost of living” in San Francisco, or a 5-year plan involving the word “marketing,” or the FDA recommendation for Creatine intake, or the Oakland A’s ongoing fire sale, or going under the needle for some new ink, or spraying down a bunch of drunk techies with cheap champagne, or Everchill’s constant dryhump ruining what’s left of his arm, or 86ing one of Bumsted’s derelict friends from SFAC, or waking up on time for a game, or wearing batting gloves, or punching his clown, or the 10-9-1 Benders, or dick balloons, or a mound rebuild, or what the pros are wearing, or praying for Ratto, or LinkedIn, or going hogging, or the Super Regionals in Fort Worth, or talking shit to Tony. Refreshingly, he still doesn’t give a flying fuck about any of it. 

It’s a good thing someone doesn’t care about Drake. God knows we need more people in this world taking a similar stance on the matter. But I suppose you can’t blame people like Old Crowe feeling a bit agitated at the Canadian pop-star’s recent publicity stunt. If releasing a “dis-track” and throwing shame at Philadelphia’s own Meek Mill won’t get Old Crowe riled up, I don’t know what will. But slapping a photo of a galloping Joe Carter on said track? Well there is the line in the sand. No way, bud. Not on the same day Cole Hamel’s contract gets dumped off to a bunch of oil barons in Arlington. That will make Old Crowe’s blood boil right there.

But who knows, maybe I’m wrong about this. Maybe Sq****’s pending IPO might smooth things over. Maybe Old Crowe can just point and laugh. What we do know is that Jon Danger doesn’t give a fuck. About any of it.

The 2015 Tide are approaching August baseball for the fifteenth time together, and Old Crowe still hasn’t aged one year during this period. Unlike basketball (see: Franchise, Stevie), I guess the process of grinding for rec-hardball ‘ships does indeed keep you young.

Winners of fifteen games thus far, the Tsunami’s official record actually reads “16-3” thanks to a godforsaken forfeit from an outfit named the Benders. As fate would have it, the soon-to-be 17-3 Tide will square off versus those very same Benders on Wildcard Weekend. A money grab with the TV networks if there ever was one, Wildcard Weekend will essentially serve as a spring training tilt for the Figoni’s of the world. A chance to dust off the braj and purchase some Apple Care at the only Mac phone store in Monterey. Next up will be the Aces in the Ocean Divisional Series (ODS) followed by the Isotopes in the Ocean Championship Series (OCS). Then the all-elusive Ship at SLBP. Where the dogpile will occur and the Foley Cup will be awarded.

But before we can find out where the Tide are going (down Broadway in a tinted out black town car), it makes sense to take a step back and see where the Tide have been first.

Where the Tide have been is inside The Joint, at a funeral and everywhere in between. Bourbon Street, the base of Touchdown Jesus, The Friendly Confines, the Cactus League, Omaha Nebraska, the wedding alter, South America, Chiraq, back to The Joint, SFAC, The Field Tommy Found, and that’s just the start.

As is well publicized, The Godfather placed himself on the 30-Day DL back on December 7th. This lead Gigante to utter the famous line, “Time to start pulling on the same rope for The Godfather. There is no ‘I’ in ‘Fuck You Cancer.’” No truer words.

So off ‘Father went to The Joint, equipped with a 24-pack of lubed up rubbers issued by some nameless hot nurse probably named Becky. He proceeded to climb up on the hill with an Orel #55 on, dust off the dirty rubber, and waste no time pumping the pearl and painting the black and fucking cancer.

Meanwhile, Gigante and co. were off to Louisiana for his Dick Funeral in early January, charging hard with the motto “What happens below the Mason-Dixon Line, Stays below the Mason-Dixon Line” written under the cap of his Tide hat. Pucks flew, jiggle joints were patronized, beads were tossed, yes. But more importantly, TommyGun Sal squatted down in a NOLA bar and worked on his pop time for a good 3 minutes. Thankfully, all members of the platoon made it out of the war zone alive.

It wasn’t long, however, until we were alerted of the news of Ernie Banks’ passing. If Let’s Play Two was half as athletic and born in the Bay Area, you can bet your ass he would have played in the SFNABA for many an Ernie Banks Specials. The Tide responded as Ernie would have liked, playing more baseball.

But to play, you need a field, and the Tide didn’t exactly have one, so TommyGun grinded his dick off and found us one. A field to call our own, or “The House Tommy Found.”

By February, Godfather was back out at an area field swinging the goddamn dick from the left side. “I got better today,” Godfather would explain.

It wasn’t long thereafter that Rizzo was off to Arizona to visit his world champion son, Joe Panik. Camera in hand, he cajoled his way into a green collar dugout, and rubbed elbows with Will Ferrell and Rickey Henderson. “In the Big Leagues, they usually can give you the right glove,” Rickey explained.

Rizzo returned with stories from the Promised Land, but also warned his Tide brethren about mistakes made even at the highest level. “Not everyone responds to wall-to-wall carpeting in the right way. And that. That is a rotten shame,” he lamented.

Such fodder was needed for what was deemed the “Mound Rebuild Of The Century” at Paul Goode Field. Of course, it ended up being a day-long clusterfuck, but Danger brought a few new tattoos to the party, so that helped. Other topics of discussion included the good old days when 2Hole routinely went hogging on Benard Street, if Ratto is still alive and how wooly Coachella has become due to trends in the modern society. 

On the field, the Tide were their usual selves during the regular season. Pitching fantastic, hitting ok, and running the bases like they don’t really give a fuck what Everchill thinks. Sure, their dicks went limp against the Wood as they have a habit of doing, and they split an Ernie Banks with the Topes, but other than that, it has been fairly chalk.

The Road To Omaha seemed to keep some Tide members adequately distracted from their professional lives during the month of June. The More Ping Less Bling Degenerate Gambling Pool attracted more Dirtbags than ever before. The Florida Gators were the Tide’s Ping team of choice. And thank God. Betting on UC Santa Barbara to win anything but the Wool Olympics or a Commie Kickball game is evidently a fool’s errand. Irregardless, the pilgrimage to Omaha was made and a few lucky Tide members were fortunate enough to take the Ping Right of Passage. Between EYL’s 10-hour bus ride wading through the cornfields of Iowa and Gigante’s now famous 7-IPA 11-run 4th inning at The Blatt gastropub, the Tide certainly learned a lot about themselves. 

As the summer has wore along, and June turned into July, the Tide organization learned of tragedy with the passing of Young J. Hardaway. One of the OG’s, J. Hardaway played in what some call “The Larson Era.” He was a player and a man whom no one spoke poorly of, but rather always respected. A Tsunami player who paved new roads in the SFNABA alongside (to name just a few) Larson, Everchill, Old Crowe, Danger, Omaha, Brill, and of course The Godfather.

Fortunately, with as much heartache as the Tide dealt with in July, Godfather was able to provide some positive news for Tsunami Nation. “I have effectively FUCKED CANCER,” announced ‘Father. His clean bill of health had arrived.

Of course, as July now turns into August, Godfather is quick to remind us that the dogfight still rages on and the same certainly still holds true in the SFNABA, albeit on a much smaller scale.

Wildcard Weekend kicks off on Sunday August 9th at 1:30pm. Let the Tide roll… 

Posted by section925 on 07/29 at 10:43 PM
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