My only daughter, a beautiful brilliant woman, married with kids and a master's degree, announced she wanted to attend a women's roller derby event. I wouldn't have been more surprised if she had tickets to a nude mud wrestling tournament and did we want to go? I generally don't do sports-related things and I would rather be stuck in church than sit through a basketball game.
And that is how I find myself in a bar nursing a Kessler's and diet hissing at Dave not to tell anyone we are waiting on a roller derby. Phil, the pot-bellied elderly bartender points at my empty glass. "Phil'er up, Phil," I say quoting the sign above my head, a drawing of a much younger, slimmer Phil pouring the spirits. Beers I drank in college like Old Style and Bud Light and Miller Light are the only tap selections and this is seriously crazy redneck country.
I grab front row seats and can't help noticing a taped-on paper square on the floor that says, Suicide Section. This area is for the brain-damaged fans who want to sit on the floor and have a squadron of out-of-control overweight skaters trip and land in their laps. And there appears to be a lot of these people. This is the first event I attend where the fans look scarier than the security staff and even those guys are looking nervous.
The first person I encounter is an obese menacing woman wearing a red spandex skating uniform, Christmas necktie, and torn black fishnet stockings encasing large varicose-veined thighs. Team that with a bright orange mohawk with gang symbols shaved onto the sides of her scalp. Tattoos are far too many to count and her code name is emblazoned across her broad back, "Askin4it." She shoves a huge bag of dried jerky at me and says, "want some meat?" I shake my head, I'll not be askin' anything from Askin4it. As I scuttle away she yells at me, "you KNOW you wanna buy a t-shirt!"
It's a simple sport for simple people, only four rules according to the explanation in the program, even dominoes has more than that. The girls pretty much do what they want and the referees with names like Body Bag and Hugo Busther scream into their whistles. I stand off to the side stretching my legs and the "blocker" section is coming at me, a solid wall of unrelenting female flesh and some of these women are winking at me so Dave, we're going home.
I grab front row seats and can't help noticing a taped-on paper square on the floor that says, Suicide Section. This area is for the brain-damaged fans who want to sit on the floor and have a squadron of out-of-control overweight skaters trip and land in their laps. And there appears to be a lot of these people. This is the first event I attend where the fans look scarier than the security staff and even those guys are looking nervous.
The first person I encounter is an obese menacing woman wearing a red spandex skating uniform, Christmas necktie, and torn black fishnet stockings encasing large varicose-veined thighs. Team that with a bright orange mohawk with gang symbols shaved onto the sides of her scalp. Tattoos are far too many to count and her code name is emblazoned across her broad back, "Askin4it." She shoves a huge bag of dried jerky at me and says, "want some meat?" I shake my head, I'll not be askin' anything from Askin4it. As I scuttle away she yells at me, "you KNOW you wanna buy a t-shirt!"
It's a simple sport for simple people, only four rules according to the explanation in the program, even dominoes has more than that. The girls pretty much do what they want and the referees with names like Body Bag and Hugo Busther scream into their whistles. I stand off to the side stretching my legs and the "blocker" section is coming at me, a solid wall of unrelenting female flesh and some of these women are winking at me so Dave, we're going home.
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| Big Dave, me and Askin', BFF |
2 comments:
What is it with you and women...it must be that butch haircut along with your sinewy toned bod
Can't be helped. I'm a babe magnet.
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