Big Sex • March 29th, 2022
Here’s your unreadable racing form for the worst cult convention in the galaxy!
Brooklyn Champions roster:
Fart Cop a.k.a. Meat Dolphin a.k.a. Dazzler a.k.a. Nerf Hoops
8 Ball a.k.a. Ya, Jeans! a.k.a. Four Dicks
Sawmill a.k.a. Geoffrey Bomber a.k.a. Baby Spice
Monk Dank a.k.a. Mr. Pocket a.k.a. Drunk Tank
In October, the Coney Island Ice Queen, probably the longest dongest most cavernous haunt in the YFS, hosted Brooklyn’s first Fall Classic not at the eponymous YF Cathedral (our late mom herself, finally gentrified to death last Mother’s Day), just weeks after we officially laid York Field to rest under the backhoes with a bagpiper and everything. Culling once significant Brooklyn bawlers who didn’t make it out to Coney and Big Hal’s enough in 2021, the Brooklyn co-commissioners decided to draw teams of four, not five, for the 2021 Fall Classic. The Mothership handed these four core frenemies the Fish trophy, and they promptly dropped and shattered it. The BK champ squad will be the only one to bring its entire winning team intact to Mexico; thus the Mothership has exercised their right to decline a potentially streak deflating PIG. They’re young, they’re old – their age wingspan might be the biggest among championship squads. But they “sometimes feel like those year-out high school graduated seniors that come back to the Friday night football games to hang out,” said a source close to the team. The actually-old(s) can like to behave and talk like children behave and talk, and the actually-young(s) like to dress and talk like old men dress and talk. At minimum, two of them can’t not be at constant odds with each other. Which two? Depends on the day. Stoke it! But with sadness I admit that these guys didn’t then and aren’t now having trouble hitting, and after years of frustration for some of them, they might all be able to pitch. Let’s see, what can I tell you. I don’t know, 8 Ball has a platonic roommate, a cat named Carl. 8 Ball tends to wind up in squabbles. 8 Ball likes Snickers bars and always asks you to grab him one. Will you? Will Mr. Pocket figure out a way to fill up his little glass jars? Will I smother Sawmill when he sawmill snores in our room? Will Fart Cop throw a bottle at 8 Ball before the draw even happens? For 8 Ball to draw Fart Cop on his Fall Classic team was like your mom’s ex-husband having to sit next to your stepdad, who’s five inches taller, at your sold-out middle school clarinet and snare drum recital; like your mom’s ex-husband having his first flat tire on the way home and oh look your stepdad happens by on the road, and he’s so well prepared; like having one of the best stickball players alive be named not after his abilities but after policing your dugout whining. Complicated! This off-again, on-again couple love to hate and hate to love each other, but they love each other, and the love-hate is there. If you want to beat 8 Ball, aim for the mind, but he is in top form right now; all of these guys are really, in spite of their tragic flaws. And Sawmill? He could not give a fuck about that Fish trophy. Unfortunately, this team might fuck you up, if they don’t get in one another’s noodles.
Warm-up tracks from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:
“Aaron’s Party (Come Get It)”, Aaron Carter
“In Those Jeans”, Ginuwine
Dirty $outh Champions roster:
The Southern Diamond
Spider a.k.a. Chloe Nation
PIG Drawn: Czar Brah
Populist favorites. Men of the people. Enthusiastic kissers. Unilaterally huggable even before they opened their arms this past November to fifty-some morons from all over Stickball universe, the NOLA champ squad has a lot of goodwill due to them in Mexico after putting their hospitality where their wide open mouths have been at the rad as all hell Wide Open tournament. Katfish, reigning number-one Dipshit in the George Magazine Power Rankings, perennial Heart of the YFS, and tan-line-free Smoochmaster General, won the inaugural Galactics in 2019 with ’ship champs Sugar, Southern Monk, and the Natural, with Katfish as the drawn PIG. Katfish is a proper incumbent champ this time, carrying a new trio to Mexico now that the pandemic is more complicated. Now he’s got (Southern) Diamond, whose unflagging need to be the most loved, most targeted, partially performative-meanest and partially really-meanest, actually nicest, best cook, best host, winningest player, and longest socks wearer in the books has led him to become a reliable force of reckoning. So. Diamond’s only weakness, his inability to unfocus his attention on Loser Beau a.k.a. Hot Dog, the Person, may also be the secret, never-written-down gumbo recipe for his successes. If it ain’t fixed don’t fuck it. We don’t know enough about Flapjack, the Person – the brother of Hot Dog, the Person – I feel like Flapjack has won the ’ship in New Orleans three years running, but I’m not going to check. I heard he likes to keep raisins in his mouth – how long or how many on average and to what end, we’ll just have to check. People get pulled into weird little offices at the border for less. He coaches sports out of state, so he’s not around too much, which reminds me that Flapjack is supposedly responsible for bringing the ephemeral legend of Jolly Roger into the league, whatever that’s worth. And Spider – scouts describe pugfather Spider as an enigma: often great at stickball, often trapped in the web of his own mind, often at once. He “loves it when he can do things like rub dirt on things or throw away brand new balls,” it’s been said. He’s “always at the field early to set up” [...]. He sends all caps emails he can’t explain. Spider and the Guice are rooming together, we’re told. “The energy in that room gon b cray.” I wouldn’t know, but what is the deal with these guys and their trophies? Yeah, yeah, champs champs champs, they can all throw trash around like nobody’s business, except my Little League coach, who was in the garbage business, and who didn’t like when I told him that his son couldn’t hit if he had a mattress, because he was in a third kind of garbage business, but like the pig-greased fingers of the Brooklyn champs, the Dirty $outh have trouble hanging onto their real-life hardware – “somebody stole” that first Galactics trophy out of the team limo outside of 45 “because it looked like the box of IOUs from Dumb and Dumber”. Anyway, watch if they act like it’ll be their PIG’s tournament to lose.
Warm-up track choices from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:
“With Arms Wide Open”, Creed
“My Favorite Mistake”, Sheryl Crow
JET CITY PLOWBOYS
Seattle Champions roster:
Big Bat Bacon
The Well-Fed Man
PIG Drawn: Seadderall
PIG Drawn: T-Bop
The lion’s share of interscholastic reporting on the Plowboys is always this chorus about wow they’re old, god they just have to be old, my word are they old, old old old, who’s old, they’re old Sex we’re talking about them that’s old. Well I don’t know! Maybe we could be guided to characterize these guys as callousy doers. Lived in. They dine out on baggage. They’re multi-person daddies. They can afford to take this trip with no trouble. Big Bat Bacon and The Well-Fed Man might look like they’ve been robbing church basements since George W. Bush was doing lines off a toilet paper guard. They might look like the parolee school bus driver who called me Wilimina and Wilma and Fucky Kid and unintentionally progressive names on the school bus. But do you know what, these guys fuck! And they fuck on Mondays. They own equipment. Rooms for their tools. You know they’ve each got their own rider mowers. They’re welcome for holidays. They’re policyholders and talk about it. The SeaTac crew drive their separate cars every Monday afternoon to Chemtrail Park, where they watch Seadderall in cosplay try to break the world record for hot boxing in a converted terrarium, or whatever the fuck is going on out there. Dirtbag made a name for himself as the only Plowboy to join Daisy Cutter in New Orleans for The Wide Open and caused a Monday morning email panic when no one could find him. Will it be he who shows up in Mexico, or a body that’s been dead since November 8th? Big Bat Bacon drove the Brooklyn team to the mall at dawn to buy new lingerie after our luggage was stolen before the Turns Out More Trouble Than It’s Worth Car tournament in August 2019, which was deeply appreciated, as was the whole torrid event, despite everything. Jet City have got one of the best postgame clubhouse bars in the YFS. But although news travels fast in stickball, I can’t help feeling we barely know anything about these guys, even Dirt Bath. Why is that? Will they win the Galactics Dos? No, but that probably means they will. They say Daisy Cutter, the world record holder for vacations per month, pitches from a pool chair at the Arena. Do the crusties feel lucky? They’re the team most likely to fix the draw – they might’ve farmed out the stealing of our luggage, but they managed to get away with it. Keep an eye out for loaded dice and eye drops in your tallboy. But do you know who didn’t need an extra PIG? Brooklyn. Notably Jet City will not bring the following players: Gentle Pliant Corn Dog, Off Switch, Husk of My Former Self, Bic Dick, Empty Hallway, Jesus Isn’t He Just a Little Baby, Tech Town Termite, Naked Wedding, He Who Brings Two Books On Trips but Winds Up Scrolling Instagram in Bed, or Sun Kissed Dick.
Warm-up track choice from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:
“I Try”, Macy Gray
Tinseltown Funboys Champions roster:
PIG Drawn: Deadliest Catch
PIG Drawn: The Deal a.k.a. Traitor Joe’s
Well well well. If it isn’t the consequences of our actions. The mother fuckin’ Tinseltrash. These clown bangers are losing it out there on one mad combination of dosage or another, apparently more and more involved in some kind of wellness mindfulness business promise religious amalgamumdedum pyramid scheme that makes Scientology look like OJ’s legal team (effective); that makes Major League Baseball look like a baseball league (it’s, not); that makes the Paterson, New Jersey, historical preservation office look like Jack Ruby’s snub nose (effective). But whatever the Tinseltraumas are doing, high on Vaseline, bada bing, Hubbard, and porn magazine ads, at least they’re not doing it with four pillars of boredom. Helmed up by the king of South Pasadena, the bouncy professional ponytail himself, Dong Robber, who wants you to understand he has a sandwich named after him at his favorite bar but it might be just him going back there and making it, the Funboy Threesome are missing their two remaining champs, whose names I didn’t look up. I heard one got into the Groundlings, and the other is opening a sandwich shop, a sentence I couldn’t make sound more LA if I tried. But if they’re YFSLA, you can be sure they too talk dong, make up rules regarding dongs, and name players after the almighty Dong. Yes, out at the dong salon they’re long on dong and strong on song — reputedly, the song addict, Dong Quixote, yet another YFSLAer known for making sandwiches, doesn’t leave home without a little boom box “that plays only the chillest grooves and vibes”. Song Quixote sounds like a good date for a picnic – but will he dong without song if that boom box gets taken at the border? We’ll know before too long. Dong Quixote was among the first to welcome Big Sex when I first glimpsed the Dirt during my first dry-out trip in years to Los Angeles, a town that does not make comfortable the Brooklyn Mothership’s only member born in New York City (except Time Machine, but he isn’t going to be born for awhile yet). And Candyman went to Yale. I mean, even Jonathan Taylor Thomas went to Harvard. Notably YFSLA did not bring the following players: The Year 2003, One-Man Show, Hoobastank, Spec Scripts, Restaurant Sink, The Coke Dome, The Human Podcast, Cokey Cokitey Coke Bowl, The Glass Slipper, The Co-Op Board, Yearny, Car Seat, Real Live Woman, The Wake of Our Indecision, Videotape Left In The Car, Final Draft 12, Funeral Earnings, Megachurch, Funeral Earrings, RALPH, The Industry By Which I Mean The Extras Industry, Terms of Service, Whiteboard Marker Thief, Traffic Cop, Sandwich Fetish, Gassy, Comedy Plus Time Equals Being Sought by Your Manager’s Collections Department, Porn Law, Down by Porn, Corn in the Maw, Ke Huy Quan, R.L. Stine, Frankie Muniz, Greta Gerwig, Raven-Symoné, or Jerry Springer.
Warm-up track choices from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:
“A Thousand Miles”, Vanessa Carlton
The Laguna Beach title sequence song
ROSE CITY STICKBALL
Portland Champions roster:
PIG Drawn: Serial Killer a.k.a. Son of Stickball
We could make a big copy meal out of what’s already been said of the Portland crime syndicate. Everybody knows what Big Viaje and our dear sister Joosey Joose can do in a travel game. And I venture to say too much has been made of Big Trip’s ten-gallon hat, but we’ll see if he still has the warning track edge after the border cops steal it. I for one am grateful we didn’t win that god damn squirrel nest of a car.
After my last trip to the Slabyard, reminiscing of a casual strip club dinner with these golden fools ending with Son of Stickball asking the woman on stage if she would box his tomato soup up, I found some kind of citizen snitch account called @pdxalerts on Twitter – why somebody just transcribes what goes out over police scanners, I’ll never understand – but it has allowed me to marvel remotely at what YFS Rose City have been up to in the offseason. Lotta heat. Anyhoo, don’t be a snitch – I’ve redacted the more identifiable details. But I’ll tell you, it’s filled my heart with grins to be able to check up on the gang out there over the past several months. I’ll let the PDX fuzz chasing our dipshit cousins do the talking.
Directly quoting from Portland OR Alerts (@pdxalerts):
“[...] deputies enroute to a residence, caller is house sitting and woke up to find a gold Sebring convertible crashed into a tree on the property with nobody around”
“Police to a residence, caller reports their roommate assaulted them with a coffee table”
“Fire responding to the Sally Port at MCDC (central precinct booking) to cut a ring off a person being booked into custody”
Hope they got a new cock ring in time for the Galacticos.
“Police responding to a residence, caller reports an unknown male on her property refusing to leave, caller says when she asked the male to leave he kicked her car, described as a white male wearing a ‘Tap-Out’ shirt”
“Police to NE Burnside, caller reports a male in the middle of the road holding a sign and exposing himself to passersby”
“[...] caller reports a ‘suspicious meat seller’ in a white van trying to avoid a Ring Camera and going door to door”
I mean that could be anybody.
“Police to Walgreens [...], caller reports a disturbance, a male wearing plaid pants and a blanket swinging around a bottle of wine”
“[...] report of a woman armed with a knife scaring people at a bus stop, she’s reportedly stabbing a Tri-Met machine #AvoidTheArea”
“Fire responding to SW [...], report of a porta-potty that’s smoking”
“Police, Fire and Medical to the Fremont Bridge, report of a male walking with his pants on fire”
“Casino Security on Boulder Highway out with a disturbance in the slot section - 2 females fighting over $1 - subjects now throwing ashtrays and wine”
Oh what, sounds like they’ve wandered down to Vegas?
“N. Las Vegas - Area of Clayton and Lone Mountain - report of suspicious subjects - group of females taking turns pushing each other down the hill in shopping carts”
Keep keeping Portland weird, produce of the Wanderer tree. Like that gold Sebring, I wouldn’t be here without him either.
Warm-up track choices from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:“Everytime”, Britney Spears
“Hero”, Enrique Iglesias
“Champions” roster de los Mexicanos:
It’ll be my first trip to Mexico, so I know next to nothing about these guys. But I like the talk around ’em in the press booth. They seem well loved. They help kids in need, they like Italian food. I’ve yet to meet the Baja men, but I hope they like… me. If I lived where they live, I wouldn’t want to come to New York either, even without the risk of meeting me. Word is their recruiting has suffered, and they don’t always run regular games at YFS Rosarito, so they’re competing “on Galacticos builder tickets and chutzpah alone,” said a local bandleader. Though not tecccchnically a champ squad – YFS Rosarito had more important things to worry about last year than a local championship – the hosts of the Galacticos have grandfathered in some additional home-field advantage. Deal with it, Pittsburgh. I for one am good with advancing them a little good faith even though nobody plays stickball very often in Rosarito. But they’ve assembled this foursome of fake champs anyway – is YFS Rosarito just these four and that’s it? They are proud as hell and no matter what, they are known to leave it all out on the fuckin’ field; “at least Toro and Puta Mañana”, say their families. I might take the odds. Unencumbered by the usual American YFS drama bullshit, these guys are juuuuuust happy to be there. They sound like fun. For example, the Brooklyn champs’ SRLD metrics are sky-high, but the L part is just each of them laughing at his own jokes. And YFS Rosarito might be a “small group”, like at a conference, but from what I hear, the laughs these startup ballers produce are expected to be more “with”. Not “at”.
Warm-up track choice from the “NOW That’s What I Call Music!” box set:
“Leave (Get Out) - Radio Edit”, JoJo
The PIGS, a.k.a. The Losers Who Couldn’t Win – heeeeere, loser loser loser loser:
The Red Menace a.k.a. Southern Monk
Hot Dog, The Person
Boogie Fuckin’ Joe
Uncle Kimmy a.k.a. Dublé
Son of Stickball
Heckler travel squad ticket holders from Rose City:
Daddy a.k.a. Father Figure
Sophomore Dimitry, a.k.a. Odd Job
YFS Steel City was just made an official chapter, but the blimp they’re riding in from Pittsburgh won’t be full enough for them to bounce on the bonercoaster as an all-yinz team in Mexico this time – maybe if they’d brought a fully intact champ squad or at least one Pittsburgh PIG to shove in there, but gotta draw the line somewhere, and they barely missed the cutoff. One day they’ll grow enough underhair. But these three little champs-turned-PIGs didn’t want to stay home. Into the PIG trough they go. Ground Control brought us all The Prison, site of the inaugural Pittsburgh stickball tilt in May of last year, now in the running for league-wide favorite venue, even if the prisoner ghosts have chased them off. Ground Control was the only yinzer to ride with stud commish/consummate dish Solo Shot to New Orleans in November 2021. Thumper, wholesome ’burgh boy and lionheart bunny rabbit, hit his first-ever bomb two weekends ago, and it cost him – an expensive day for YFS Steel City, especially for Solo Shot, who conjured this chapter out of thin air back in our hometown and hit seven polka-saturated ding a ling a dignity dongs that day, resulting in the yinzer band donating a lofty amount of a lot of homer + drop money to help those under attack in Ukraine, with a salute to Sophomore Dimitry’s a.k.a. Odd Job’s loved ones. The Steel City isn’t the Jean-Claude Van Damme town we grew up in anymore, but YFS is on the come-up out there. Sawmill and I were on the ground on Pittsburgh’s Opening Day to show all three of these jagoffs how to glance bombs off The Prison sniper towers and to make fun of their real jobs, and we returned with the Shepherd a.k.a. Hot for Sheeper back in August to watch them piss Iron City Beer on an elementary school and pray to a local deity known as the BOPE. They’ve got nothing but promise to launch out of Mr. Everywhere’s sling shot. There’s nothing like unjaded SRLD. Here’s hopin’ I get to throw to a Pittsburgh PIG, but maybe not all three.