And you make my point. The twelve dollar ticket to Municipal Stadium is what I could afford (it helped that gas was just over a buck back then, too). The seats I got behind home-plate are out of my reach at the Jake (Progressive Field, pffffft).

From what you say, Cleveland has a lot of pigs (strippers, smokey, and cops) so maybe we could get along. I’ll bring the hot-shot and a branding iron. I’ll be nice to the policeman and refrain from commenting on his ass.

The absolute all-time funniest fuckin thing I ever heard was on a drive to work listening to Tom Bernhard on KQ-94 in the Twin Cities tell the David Felcher story from whence the term originated. I went spasmodic and had to pull over on the freeway because I was changing lanes uncontrollably and couldn’t see through the tears in my eyes. This was maybe 20 years ago, but I know they have it in an archive. They replay it almost every year with their other classic pranks and such.

Second funniest was a prank on a dude I worked with at the stockyards that was appropriately nicknamed “Moose”. Now, Moose could give both these fellas a run for their money and doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Moose was a hog drover and once picked a fella up by the ankles and rammed the guys head in a steamy pile of hog shit because he played a prank on him, which was usually once a week.

Anyway, they impersonated a game warden and accused Moose of giving his deer tag to his buddy and they were going to arrest him. Moose was contrite at first, but then blew his lid and started cursing and finally hung up. They must have called him a half dozen times with the rants just building in flavor as he heated up. He finally caught on and sputtered, “BENNY, is that you fuckin with me”. Best part was when he found out it was broadcast to the entire Cities and was now part of the classics.

In the summer of 1986 after I graduated from high school, I drove myself to a Cleveland Indians ballgame at the mistake by the lake (Indians beat the pale hose 8-4), drank a beer using a fake ID, and convinced a Holiday Inn clerk to let me use a credit card that wasn’t my own (my parents naively gave me one of theirs). Don’t tell me I wouldn’t last in Cleveland 10 minutes. Been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt.

Too many people have come to rely exclusively upon cunt, and I think that does a tremendous disservice to the art of swearing. For a time, cunt and twat were on equal ground, but anymore it is all cunt all the time. Twat is the unappreciated 2nd baseman to cunt’s overpaid right fielder.

So, a toast to you Mr. Raab. You may have been crushed like clove of garlic in mama’s kitchen this time, but you have shown tremendous upside potential with this latest post.