13 July 2006


I went to a baseball game yesterday. I went mostly for the beer and food. It’s the sort of grub that can only be found in central Pennsylvania.

Here, they serve the sort of dense gelatinous “food” that will bind your guts up for several days, allowing you to pass naught but some noxious, black clouds of toxic gas of the sort that one might expect of one were to ignite Kieth Richards.

In short, damn tasty stuff, if a little hard on one’s coworkers.

I certainly didn’t go for the talent. Our local team is a very minor league team called the “Spikes”.

Why “Spikes”? It’s not exactly a mascot that inspires fear and panic.

Spikes are the surly fourteen year-olds of the animal kingdom. It really doesn’t take too much in the way of imagination (or recreational pharmaceuticals) to imagine them excessively pierced, wearing baggy pants and listening to their ungodly death metal at brain pureeing volume.

I don’t know why today’s teenagers can’t listen to the perfectly normal death metal of our generation; fine, melodic bands like The Cat Butt Reamers and Bealzebübba, but I think lead paint must have something to do with it.

In any event, on the way to work this morning, a spike ambled across the road. His head bobbed to the thumping of his ear buds as he stopped in my lane. Being mindful of my insurance rates, I too, came to a halt scant feet from him. What the hell was the moron thinking?

Now, Ted Nugent claims that deer only think of three things: “Where is the best place to eat?”, “How can I have sex?” and “Run away!”

Then he made a very unkind comparison to Jacques Chirac.

Be that as it may, this particular deer was clearly in the throws of spotty adolescence and was obviously thinking of nothing.

I looked at him. He glared back.

I honked my horn. He gave me “The Hoof”.

I rolled down my window and yelled at him.

Bambi finally realized the magnitude of his error. He was not facing down a hippy in a hybrid, he was looking at the blunt end of a pick-up with a redneck at the wheel.
His hooves skittered as he tried to complete his passage of the road, but at the last minute he decided to juke back the way he came. The only problem with this was that his legs were still going the other direction. The spike overbalanced, struck his head on the pavement. His legs twitched for a couple of seconds, then he was still.

Now, killing a deer with one’s voice is not the kind of thing a foaming nut case fellow with delusions of grandeur needs to know he can do (he might try it out on a skunk or congresscritter and get sprayed), but it’s certainly an ability that he’d want to show off at work.

So I threw the deer into the truck bed and drove on.

Well, it turns out that Bambi wasn’t entirely dead. He recovered enough to jump out of my truck, dash across the roof of an astonished cop’s car and vanish into the lush ungulate smorgasbord that is suburbia.

The cop and I both looked at the hoof prints on the roof of his cruiser and shook our heads.

Come to think of it, Spikes are the perfect mascot.

And that's the way I likes it.