The Murderous Tom Doyle (An idea I stole…)

So as you know, I play kickball on the greatest kickball team in the world (king hippos). We have multiple world kickball association records, and many more drinking records. So we join this WAKA league to grace them with our presence. As we take the field everyone’s cheering and they hand us solo cups of awesome. It’s raining but we don’t care because we’re Hippo’s and that just makes us better anyhow.

So we suit up, we take the field we get the briefing from Cap’n Big and we’re eating some “shoes” Shookie was kind enough to make and the refs call for the teams to Ro-Sham –Bo. Some teams would concern themselves with such a match up, but we’re hippos and it doesn’t bother us. We stare “away” in the face, and “away” backs down.

So we send in our delegate and he goes through the 1,2,3 and


BAM Scissors!!!

This guy doesn’t even know what hit him. Who throws scissors? This game is centered around rock right? Its paper or its rock…so he shoots again and

BAM SCISSORS!!!!

AGAIN? Who is this guy, who the fuck throws scissors TWICE???!?!?!! Scissors is barely in the rules. And just when he’s coming to grips with the reality of the situation, the Hippo looks him in the eyes and whispers

“Away…”

And now the dude doesn’t even know what to think. He gets back to his huddle and their like “how we lookin” and the guys just stammering. And his teammates grab him by the shoulders and their like “SPEAK TO ME MAN – WHAT HAPPENED” and he’s like the beat me with Scissors…

“WHAT?”

They beat me with scissors…

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE SCISSORS?”

They beat me…

“Alright team well collect yourselves, Joey you’re kicking first”

“no…they took away”

The teammate slaps him. “Collect yourself man, no one takes away”

And they guy, looking downward like his dog had been killed says “…but they did”

And Teammate glares across the field through the pouring rain. He tries to stare us down but we’ve already suited up and we’re wearing our tornados. And he turns to his buddy Jim and he’s like

“jesus Jim…their like orange zebra”

“No Diego…they are hippos”

“God help us all.”

And the top of the order lines up in the box. The pitch is thrown and it goes blowing by the hippo at

30 MPH!!!!!

The catcher tries to stop it but its going

30 MPH!!!!

It rolls into the street and cars are diving out of the way, trying to avoid the children behind said ball, there’s carnage everywhere. The pitcher opens his eyes…but it was a ball. And he took a cone in the process. He realizes the Hippo also blend in with the cones, and you can’t see it in the rain but he starts to sweat.

The hippo drops one sock down, to both show that he is in a Hippo gang, and as a direct challenge to the pitcher. With skin exposed, he assumes he can find the batter in the field of orange.

The ball approaches, the hippo drops a bunt into the dead zone. For a brief moment the world stops. The catcher looks to the pitcher. The Pitcher looks at the catcher. Third base is screaming you but no one looks to see who he’s signaling. Eventually the catcher mounds it. The hippo has been debating agricultural practices for the last 2 mins on first with Colin, who sips his “diet coke.” The option for second was there, but we’re a classy team.

The assault continues, the rain continues. Due to some poorly placed pop-fliers, the Bottom of the inning approaches. The game trucks along in a similar fashion, Ray’s name echos through the Harvard Coop and a thousane tweed jackets spin in horror. “Who is this ray.” Owen Anderson writes an anthropology paper on how Ray is all of us, and the screaming is a collective disinvolvement with a modern coporate culture. Its Harvard – he gets an “A.”

When the game is finally over, they call in an astrophysicist to make sure the comma’s for the scores are in the correct place. The Hippos march in celebratory victory toward the bar, we walk in and the bouncers and clapping, they don’t even question my expired license. I’m a hippo and age is irrelevant.

We mount the staircase, someones wearing the MVP belt – people are demanding photos with them. We’ve settled in, we’re downing Calimari, everything is wonderful…

And then the lite jazz trio beings. The clarinet

CLARINET! IN A JAZZ TRIO!!!! WTF?!?!?!!?

Begins to blow “take five” with his eyes close like only a white guy can “feel it.” His sweater is Cosby in nature. Jaws are agape, The flashing sign says “no flip cup.” The Kitchen is exploding in fire, and their shoving tables and good times into a closet in the corner, presumably to break their ribs and give them cancer.

The waitress is disinterested.

“I asked for Mozzarella Sticks” I said.

"Those are cheese fries” she snaps as she walks off.

Even in their hour of glory, even in the herd of Hazy Orange, Tommy Doyle’s has managed to take the soul from Gods.

She turns and whispers “and you’re not getting you 15% discount” she whispers. She disappears into a mob of drunk “Where my Pitches at” players and a wall of Kenny G.