Perfect For Fans And Sadists Alike
My good friend and Buffalo native Bart just sent me this link to an eBay auction for one of the most bizarre pieces of sports memorabilia I’ve ever come across. It’s a statue commemorating the most disgustingly freak accident in recent sports history; the night Buffalo Sabres goalie Clint Malarchuk had his throat cut by an opposing player’s skate(link includes gruesome photo), and nearly died on the ice. Anybody who grew up in Buffalo has this game seared into their memory, whether they were there or not.
In fact, when I was visiting Buffalo the summer after my freshman year of college, a man tried to sell me a bootlegged copy of the game in the bathroom of a bar. I politely refused. If I want to see a snuff film, I’ll buy one from one of my trusted snuff film dealers, not some yahoo I just met in some bar’s bathroom. You just can’t trust the quality from those people.
The Story of Clint Malarchuk [Ubersite]
CLINT MALARCHUK SABRES CUSTOM MCFARLANE OLD GOALIE MASK [eBay]
Even though 
I barely have time to write this because I want to beat the traffic to get out to my beach house. You all have beach houses, right? I certainly hope so. I would hate to think there are people reading my site who are so poor they can only afford one house. That would depress me to no end. Actually, my beach house isn’t so much a house as it is a compound, made up of 50 individual houses. See, I’m a real patriot, so I purchased 50 houses, moved them all onto the same piece of land by the beach, and then I named them after the 50 states. Then I hired 50 prostitutes to live in the houses, and I named the prostitutes after the state capitals. That way I can just say to my butler, “Fetch the golf cart, Buster. I feel like banging Des Moines, Iowa today.” And then it is so. See how patriotic I am? I make Toby Keith look like Osama bin Laden.
Greetings, gentle launderers. My name is Jack. Perhaps you don’t remember me as you must see literally hundreds of faces each day, although I bet that’s not as many as you used to see when you lived in China. (Get it? Because it was so crowded.) Seriously, I am writing you this letter to better illustrate the recent problems I have had with your particular laundry service. The last time I dropped off my clothes, I specifically asked you to wash them in cold water and dry them in the permanent press cycle to prevent color running or shrinking. In fact, I repeated these instructions so many times and with such over pronounced clarity, that I was afraid that you would think I was being condescending. Well, apparently I was not clear enough. I could have given you those same directions, spoken in Portugese with a mouth full of marbles for all the good they did.
I woke up pretty early on Monday morning to get ready for the beach. Honestly, I wasn’t really looking forward to it all that much. I had spent all of Sunday outside and had gotten a fairly decent sunburn on my back and shoulders. All I wanted to do was fill my champagne glass-shaped bathtub with aloe and ease my burns. No dice! The Lady said we were going to Coney Island and that was that. We met at my place and headed to the subway to take the Q train out to Brooklyn. Since I’m so used to taking that train uptown, I absent-mindedly guided us towards that track. Just before we got to 14th Street I said, “Oh snap! We’re on the wrong train.” Yes, I do say “Oh, snap.” What of it? We must have looked pretty dumb heading uptown with all of our beach gear. I mean who even goes to the Times Square beach anymore? Hillbillies, that’s who.
We managed to switch to a downtown train, and 40 minutes later we were at Coney Island. I had never been there and didn’t know what to expect. I had heard all the rumors about it being dirty and trashy, so I have to admit I was pleasantly surprised. Sure, there was some tackiness and it was a little crowded, but for the most part I thought Coney Island was pretty nice. We headed up Stillwell Avenue toward the beach. Since thhe beach didn’t look we decided to walk along the boardwalk for a while. There was a lot of paparrazi there and they kept begging me to take off my shirt so they could see “the pecs that built America,” but I politely refused. “Let me have my dignity!” I screamed. Then I started throwing pina coladas at them.
Anyway, we headed for the beach and managed to stake out a nice spot. Oh God, was it ever hot. I was sweating like crazy just from lying down. After reading for a little while, I decided to give the ocean a try. It was crowded with little kids and ice-cold, so I waded in slowly. By the time I had waded in up to my waist, I saw three little drug baggies floating in the water. Three! In a 5-foot radius. That shit was gross. I was a little scared of what else I might find, so the Lady and I packed up and headed to the boardwalk to eat.
I got an Italian Sausage and some onion rings. Neither were very good. They tasted like someone found them in an abandoned freezer, microwaved them, and then threw them in a fryer for good measure. The Lady bought a knish. I was furious. I don’t like knishes. I wanted her to get mozzarella sticks so I could shout, “Look over there!” And then when she looked over there, I would steal all her mozzarella sticks and then blame it on a seagull. Don’t judge me!
After we ate our respective terrible meals, we headed to the rides. Most of the rides at Coney Island are the type you would find at a county or state fair. The kind that look like they can be assembled or disassembled in a few hours. I do not trust those rides. When I was in high school, my friend Tim worked at his uncle’s food stand at the Erie County Fair. The stories he told me about carnies have haunted me to this day. Suffice it to say, carnies are not the most responsible people. That’s why I only ride the rides that are permanently bolted to the ground. Those ones are less likely to be operated by a dirty carny who has to pack everything up on a moment’s notice because the cops found out that his deathtrap of a Tilt-a-whirl killed children in several states.
That left us with one ride: The Cyclone. Built in the 1920’s, I think the Cyclone is one of the country’s oldest roller coasters. It might be the oldest. But if you think I’m going to bother looking that up, you are dead wrong. We got our tickets for the Cyclone and waited in line. I wasn’t expecting much from it. It’s an 80 year old roller coaster. How scary can it be? Pretty damn scary is the answer. First of all, the Cyclone looks all of its 80 years. From the peeling paint to the mummies manning the ticket booth, it looks like the only renovations it’s seen in 80 years are maybe a couple coats of paint. Secondly, the cars are tiny. The Lady, who is quite thin, and I barely fit into one together. I don’t know how they cram the rest of the fatties into them, and, frankly, I don’t want to know. I’ll be it involves Crisco and a large shoe horn-like device. The ride itself was pretty awesome, and I was tempted to ride again, but that would have cost like 4 dollars.
