Seadderall • June 22nd, 2019

SEATTLE – After enduring the early lull of the dog days of the season the Plowboys convened this past Sunday at the Jet City Arena on your typical Seattle summer day in June…62 degrees, completely cloudy and a hint of a polite passive aggressiveness in the air.  The number of athletes committed to the routines of the Dipshit Dynasty had been lacking over the past few weeks as sights maybe had been set too high upon the pending Jet City Dream Car Challenge posed to rival chapters.  The usual suspects were committed, but lingering “back problems” from the chapter’s youngest member (no doubt incurred by too many hard swinging grounders to short) kept his firm commitment to any upcoming tilts with the recurring easy answer of: "Guys...I'm 50/50".  The local brass unimpressed with 206 Tar Heel’s supposed D in the SRLD decided in back room negotiations to relieve themselves of any passivity and publicly shame him in the weekly invitation sent to all the local athletes, wannabe YFS poseurs and the hourly contractors at Déjà Vu.  Seadderall was of course deluded with the artwork’s resemblance of a chronic leaf and firmed his commitment to a yes, only to realize that deep in the art the passive aggressiveness reared its ugly head referring to him as a “Lil’ Bitch” emblazoned on the YFS tool and even offering him up a new alias to his list of monikers: 50/50. 

With the cool air and lack of fanfare (the normal shuttle of groupies from Twisp suspended their viewership for the day to attend Dontonio Bibi’s latest side hustle -- the Bibi Brazilian Wax Seminar), there was a lightness and frivolity to the competition of the day.  As the old Plowboys gathered, further insults were hurled at 50/50.  Daisy Cutter of course showing no empathy for the newly 40 club member…“Back pain??? That’s called everyday…welcome to your 40’s”.  The other AARP members all laughed and pointed in agreement.  Regulation Bacon’s chortles were so forceful his dentures fell out.  Still presenting himself as steadfast as a lukewarm, three week old, burlap douchebag, 206 Tar Heel pleaded for respect on his dedication as his back was ship shape…but after losing a fight with a Rival Ice-O-Matic Ice Crusher the day before he found himself with only nine functioning digits.  Every Plowboy in attendance secretly wished they would not be stuck with the ear splitting cripple on their team this day.      

Caution Cone put on his readers and pulled out the cards for the draw…Team Red would consist of: Caution Cone, Bigfoot fka Christmas Tree, and 50/50 vs. Team Black: Daisy Cutter, Big Bat Bacon, and Rookie Brad.  No odds makers were to be found as Bibi drew in all regular YFS spectators and journalists.  The boys took to the field, and the first inning was a quick one.  Literally a total of nine pitches for both teams to showcase they collectively had absolutely zero fucking skill.  The defense was shoddy.  Big Bat Bacon’s mitts were as soft as cloven hooves and his ability to only run forward drew apt comparisons to an aging Centaur.  Rookie Brad aka Jergens aka Cocoa Butta aka Crisco didn’t help his rookie of the year campaign with numerous drops only a Landmine would love.  The defensive futility changed when Daisy lifted a deep drive to center only to find Seadderall toeing the wrong side of the outfield line and giving credence to the argument of his illegal encroachment of the Bush, all whilst robbing a would be HR.  Heading into the top of the 4th Bigfoot and T-Bop put together some hits and ol’ 9 finger Tar Heel jacked a yellow pill deep into the Bush.  The bleeding didn’t stop until 5 runs crossed the plate.  Both teams matched runs in the 5th, and in the 6th after already scoring one run Team Black had Daisy step to the plate still eager to add to his season HR total.  Once again he smacked a Penn deep towards the Bush and this time Tar Heel snared it right on the edge robbing him for the second time…this time wagging his bandaged index finger ala Dikembe Mutombo.  The Cutter was not happy.  As the contest headed to the final inning Team Red enjoyed an ample 8-2 lead.  Team Red was overly confident as their defense had been stellar, T-Bop showed continued range all over the infield as BBB impersonated the WFM with his attempted oppo singles and Bigfoot aka Bighand had zero problems with any deep balls hit his way.  With two outs and runners on D.C. stepped to the plate and in what he himself would later dub “the greatest defensive play in JCA history” took place.  Once again Daisy launched a fuzzy meteor to deep left center with both Team Red outfielders giving their best old man chase…as the ball neared the branches and brambles 50/50 leapt with an outstretched left hand and batted the ball away from a sure fire dinger.  As he had done all day, Bigfoot was right near his teammate for the backup and miraculously snatched the falling batted ball with his left hand before it could hit the ground. Game Over, 8-2.                        

Not finished with his Dikembe Digit finger wagging, the top of the first found 206 Tar Heel with a jumping deflection of another sure yaya off the bat of Rookie Brad. Bringing his total robbed homer count to four for the day.  At this point bordering on completely fucking annoying (at least to Team Black) Tar Heel took to the plate and T-Bop's offering of a cantaloupe became a three run jack over the head of his nemesis D.C.  The remainder of the game was fairly innocuous minus the standard shit talk.  Bigfoot put a Penn into the Bush in the 7th and Seadderall added another 2 runs of insurance with a bomb in the 8th.  Going into the top of the 9th Team Black was down 6-0.  Not to be put to bed early, Centaur and Rookie Brad put some singles in play loading the bases.  Daisy Cutter finally got wise and hit a bomb deep enough that 50/50 had no chance of pissing on his parade…Grand Slam…but not enough.  Red 6, Black 4.  Seadderall kindly asked the league brass to please call him out again in the next invite.         

Game 1: R:8 B:2
Game 2: R:6 B:4

HR's: 206 Tar Heel (3), X-Mas Tree (1), Daisy Cutter (1)

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