BFM # 386 — Ankle’s Away
0 Comments This week’s trash is courtesy of guest scribe Can You Hear Me Now?
14 July 2011, BFM # 386 – Uncle Bad Touch drew the short straw but this was his first time haring and he was recovering from an ankle injury that had put him on crutches. Did you hear how that injury happened? Weeks back he slid into home plate feet first, did an ankle roll, and wound up face down (ass up) in the dirt, but safe. Game winner. Kickball glory. Crutches for a month plus.
Kickball is one thing, drawing the BFM short straw is another. Especially if you’re Uncle Bad Touch, who knows the lines around the kickball diamond a whole lot better than the streets around Callahan’s, 26th & South, where the Ben Franklin Mob crowded in for another night of carousing.
But Bad Touch, bad ankle and all, was not deterred. He laid trail east away from the South Street Bridge, which is located in close eyeshot of Callahan’s, and turned trail a long circle right back to that Bridge. By the time the mob followed the circle jerk and found its way to the Bridge, Bad Touch was already up and over it, frolicking about in University City.
Across the Bridge in University City Bad Touch faced two tasks: make it to the beer check before the mob and make it there without destroying his still-tender ankle. The beer check, suggested by Hold the Sausage, was at Cavanaugh’s, 39th and Sansom, abut two miles from Callahan’s.
Two miles laying trail for someone recovering from an ankle injury that put him on crutches? Weren’t no thang for Uncle Bad Touch, as easy as tumbling into home plate.
When he reached Cavanaugh’s, Bad Touch opted to drag trail just a bit further to the Blarney Stone, between 39 and 40 on Sansom. The multitudinous mob showed up within minutes, dwarfing the roster of some sad sack softball team who thought it ruled the joint. Hah. Mob, beer was all over your face. Softball team got nuthin’.
Once the mob was beered-up, Bad Touch was outside, hurdling back to Callahan’s, skipping on his bad ankle, crying only on the inside. Trail traversed the Walnut Street Bridge, descended down the stairs to the Schuylkill River path, and dragged through the dog park back toward the bar.
As Bad Touch hared the final blocks an upturned sidewalk grate snagged his foot, causing him to hop, skip, jump, and howl in pain. His howl was joined immediately by howls from the dog park dogs. Or was that the mob howling `on on’? No way to know.
But Callahan’s was in sight. Would Bad Touch and his wrecked ankle, against all odds, actually return before the mob?
Nope. Already approaching the bar was the lithe, loping silhouette of Son of Goat Fucker. How did that reanimated plastinate beat the hare? And not only was Goat Fucker there, but Gay Matthew’s Lamb and Just Meghan were there too. How GML and Meghan reached the bar ahead of the hare and alongside Goat Fucker’s Paul Bunyan strides was a feat of feet. But that’s the way it was, and so GML was first in, beating the hare. Hare didn’t drink for that though.
Shortly the rest of the mob arrived, filling the poorly ventilated bar with its effervescent effluvia of perspiration. Where’s My Vagina accepted hash cash from everyone and the beer began to flow. He’s a Lesbian’s doppelganger looked down from the wall with a fixed smile of approval. In time, circle began with One Inch In channeling the commanding voice of long-ago RA, E=My Cock Squared.
One by one One in Inch called into the circle the hares, the virgins, the visitors, the transplants, the backsliders, the autohashers, free agents, the first in and last in, masticated prawns, and wayward oompa-loompas. By that point the mob was well lubricated and in its zone, as evidenced by the fact that the bar’s other customers had all left in disgust. Rounds of accusations followed, reputations were tarnished and varnished, and the beer kept flowing till everyone’s liver cried “Uncle”.
