Celebrity Death Of The Week -or- Pig Fever Claims Another Victim

Thank you for being a friend.

Traveled down the road and back again.

Your heart is true, your a pal and a confidant.

And if you through a party...

Invited everyone you ever knew.

You would see, the biggest gift would be from me

And the card attached would say,

Thank you for being a friend.

Hope Springs Eternal -or- Leave Your Hat On

The Gorillas had a tough year last year – breaking a string of several league championships and struggling to consistently bring enough bier for me to drink. So it was a goal this year to get off to a good start.  By “good start” I mean “not being on the bad side of blowouts and no major injuries.”

Thanks, in part, to the absence of BK and Beans, we’ve been pretty successful thus far.  Lord knows if those two pansies had played all six games this spring we’d at least have a pulled butt muscle and a sprained shin on our records. 

But by some miracle, we are injury free and 6-1 this young year.  Plus, we’ve only knocked one guy the fuck out and made 407 throwing errors.  So we got that going for us.

Anywho, below are the up-to-date standings.  We’re not gonna wear ties, but if we take care of business the next two games we can turn this fucker around.

Oh yah, I’m gonna order hats early next week.  Should we put the whole logo on them?  Should we go with something else?  Should we not ask you because you don’t give two shits?  Put your opinion in the comments or e-mail me and let me know if you want a hat, and what you think should be on them.

Game Day Live (On Tape) Blog -or- Grabbing At Straws

We're kinda looking for a new direction here at the official blog of the Gashaus Gorillas, so we're gonna be trying some out new brilliant ideas. Here's one that is at least new. Every week a host of e-mails get bandied about, and it's usually some of our best work. We're gonna try to sum-up those e-mails and throw 'em up here with a picture or two. It will likely suck, but we're bored today anyway, so what the fuck. Feel free to chime in in the comments.
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-- B reports that Ronnie B will be at tonight's game, speculates about Beans missing due to another great, great granparents death and BK missing due to some pussy injury/not being a good team-mate.

-- D is in, but praying for rain because it's gonna be colder than shit. Beans can't think of a good excuse, so he's in. BK shocks the world and says he can't play.

-- Discussion on JT bringing a fire pit. Upside: heat, ambiance, s'mores (marhmallow makes a good substitue for pine-tar!) Downside: legality, logistics, ghost stories. In the end JT decides to nix the idea. Too bad, he woulda batted lead-off if he pulled it off.

-- D is really concerned about the cold. Wants someone to pull a Bull Durham and turn on the sprinklers. Wonders if pissing himself would keep him warm.

--Tributes tonight: D wants to pitch to honor Mark Fidrych. B wants to gang rape a hooker to honor Maryland Chambers. Jeff plans to strike out to honor Harry K. D also divulges that his wife hates it when he wears a big bird costume to bed.

-- B prank calls D at work. Leaves message for him to call Mark DeByrd.

...more to come....

Gorilla Buzz -or- You Will Now Have Def Leopards 'Photograph' Stuck In Your Head

After much thought and consideration - during my whole post-lunch shat - I've decided to take the Gorilla Blog in a different direction. From now on, there will be much shorter posts, and much more uncredited pictures of chics holding a bat, glove, and/or balls.

Sure, there will still be an occasional long-winded, overly cliched and sophomorically humored post. That's who I am, and what I do. But in order to keep posting regularly, and thus keeping the Gorillas and their 3 fans interested, I feel there should be less words and more pictures. Just like their favorite novel.

I know what you're wondering, and the answer is yes, the focus will be on scantily clad hot chics and their tits. But, we'll try to keep it suitable for work. I can't promise it will be, but I promise to try. I don't know why, it's not like I don't say "fuck" 34 times in each post. Sometimes I capitalize and embolden it. Like this: FUCK. So if your boss is standing over your shoulder reading this tell him to fuck off and micro-manage that asshole in accounting looking up Anne Geddes pictures for his desktop image. That guy is a total pedophile.

I haven't yet decided if we'll still keep stats and post them this summer. I'd say probably, because I like to justify my shitty fielding by pointing out my incredibly large penis OPS+.

As usual, all Gorillas are invited to post as much as they like. (The Gorilla Hall of Fame posts were a good idea, but we all knew those lazy bastards couldn't keep them up.) Also don't be afraid to discuss things in the comments. It might be a more work-safe outlet than the usual 150 game day e-mails.

So, anyway... how 'bout that bumble bee chic with the tatted out arm? I bet she's a worker bee, amiright!?

Spring Schedule -or- Please Report Early For Infield Practice

Well, here we go again. Spring league starts this Tuesday, and of course it's going to be 30 fucking degrees. I think I just pulled a hamstring thinking about that.

'cuz i'm a thug -or- There once was a man from Nantucket.....

Michael J Parkman 1994-1997(ish)

Random softball groupie: "Is that Jason Terry playing shortstop?"

Devout Bayside Tiger/Paul's Boutique fan: "That's Parkman."

Before Wes Johann there was Mike. Although their personalities differed (atlho' not as much as one would think) and Mike was a bit more "tan" than Wes, it was their attire that connected them. Black socks pulled to the knees, black shorts hanging loosely covering the top half of the knee and topped off w/ a bright red shirt and a matching headband (optional). Though the colors varied from night-to-night the flow to the ensemble remained. Socks always matching (exactly) w/ either the shorts or shirt and a head dress partnering w/ the "other" article of clothing solidifying a strong two-tone style.

Mike knew most of the players on the newly formed Bayside Tigers, the prequel to the Gashaus Gorillaz, add in natural athleticism (something lacking in the majority of our roster) he was a perfect fit. Mike was also one of only 15 guys we could find that was able to be around Fleming for more than an hour w/out escalating into a physical altercation.

Mike, although athletic, didn't have much experience playing baseball/softball so he was a natural fit to be our starting shortstop. In fairness he wasn't thrust into the starting role on opening day but gradually took over the day-to-day operations at the #6 hole after "trying out" approximately 10 other candidates.

Mike's career in softball wasn't a long one. He left the Gorilla organization after a 3 year stint (approximate). I have not heard from Mike in several years and have heard rumors of him getting fired from Office Depot, threatening to kill a pizza delivery guy, and going back to work at Office Depot.

Famous Quotes:
"That dude was in one of my classes at USI. He wore shorts and sandals in January." -- referring to HoF Gorilla Rodney Bultman.

'Rilla-pedia -or- Where Have You Gone, Tyrone Taylor?

Tyrone Taylor ('94-'98)

Softball
Taylor was an orginal Gorilla, and the founder of the '96 team name "Paul's Botique" (a Beastie Boys album.) He was a slick fielding 1st baseman with the ability to play 2nd and a penchant for hitting oppo-handed at any time. But most importantly he was the "Mayor" (Sean Casey-esque) of the pre-gorillas.

1994-'98 were some lean years for the team. A three win season was considered a success. The constant losing made some players dickheads... and yah, I'm lookin at you Snyder! Oh, shit I'm writing this! Correction: I'm lookin at you Baumgart! Taylor, who by the way looks like Tony Parker (Eva!!), was the calming influence in the dugout. Everyone liked him. When certain left-center fielders short-stops would start acting like an ass he would break it down Zen style. "D Jeff, It's just a game and no matter what we're going to drink some beer afterwards." Those kind of calming quotes kept this team from imploding.

Personal
Taylor was the x factor in the infancy of the RILLAS. He started at Northside BuyLow when it opened. Stokes, Baumgart, Bultman, Perigo, Fleming, (Daniel) North, McGrew, and Baggett (all future Gorillas) worked there and he was my best friend so we all connected. (An aside: Taylor was a damn near genius. He has a 154 IQ! I've known him since I was 5 and we took some test in the 6th grade. I'm sure his year as a Pre-rilla dropped some points, but the dude was smart.)

Today
Taylor is married with a couple of kids and is a Buy Low manager. I saw him at a wiffle ball reunion in June. There had to be over 100 people in attendance and once again Taylor was the genius (that never changes), the mayor (everyone loved him), and my best friend. Tyrone Taylor was a true Gorilla!

Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio?

Its' Sunday and I'm drinking (hooray Sunday!). So naturally, I'm waxing nostalgic about the Glory Days that have passed me by.

Man, I swear back in 94 when this started I was really good looking, really good at softball and had a really big penis. (That's the way I remember it - no corrections please.)

This got me thinking about former "Gorillas", or as they were called in the pre-modern era former "Bayside Tigers", "Pauls Botiquers" or "Dead Squirrels".

So I'm going to try and start a new segment for this site "Where Are They Now?", with the disclaimer: I have a short attention span, little motivation, and no work ethic, so this may be as far as it goes.

Every week or so I will feature a former player and his history with the club and what he is up to now. Next weeks feature will be Tyrone Taylor (94-97), a founding father. (It was a car ride home from a wiffle ball tourney with Baggs, Baumgart, Taylor and myself that started this shit.) I hope to throw down a couple of stories about what made (or what didn't make) these guys Gorilla material, and what they are doing these days or at least some stories about their days in Rillaville. I'm hoping to shed some light on the history of the team... you know, from back when JT was breast feeding and Beans was just hitting puberty.

5-4-3 -or- X Files Is Believable

The Gorillas, believe it or not, are a creative bunch. The problem is, they're also a lazy bunch. And occasionally they're a dumb bunch. So, from time to time, a Gorilla that is not me will write a blog post, but be too lazy to post it here. Or he will forget his password. Or both. The following is the result of one of those occasions, and a drunken evening for D, in which he explains that hope is a good thing - maybe the best of things. And so on.

I'm a cynic, a pessimist, a non believer. I pretty much have no hope or belief in anything. In short, I'm a miserable bastard. I have no faith in anything that's not tangible. If I can't see it, smell it, or touch it... well, I just don't believe it.

When i was a young boy, they told me about Santa Claus. I did not buy into it. If a fat old man is sneaking into a kids house..he must be a pedophile.

Big Foot? Had to be Georghe Meursean or Manute Bol on a camping trip.

Roswell? I hear Mexicans are stupid (no offense to Stic)... so New Mexicans must be even stupider.

Global Warming? Where I live it's still cold in the winter and hot in the
summer. So, I'm gassing up my SUV, keeping my lights on, and cranking the AC. Going Green? Fuck that.

So when I hear of legendary/conspiracy tales - the "grassy knoll", "DaVinci codes", "Jamie Lee Curtis is a hermaphrodite (does this mean she has a dick?), "triple plays in softball", "the curse of the billy goat (poor Cubs)" - I just ignore it. Because that's what I've done for most of my life. Hope/faith don't mean shit. I basically have to see it to believe it.

I remember in high school some of my friends were telling tales of getting some "pussy", how great it was, and how they hoped to get it again. Well, I was skeptical. I had never seen, smelt or touched this so called "pussy "and could not believe such a thing could give us so much hope. Then, one day I fell out of a boat and hit water (with the help of some Purple Passion and game called 3 man). I saw the "pussy" I touched the "pussy", I smelt the "pussy" (all pretty remarkable considering it took 3 minutes.) It was great.

I walked out of the room that day and I had hope (and not the "hope she doesn't press charges" kind of hope.) It was a good day.

Since that time, The Man has kept me down, Pussy has not been around, and The Cynic was re-found. Until Tuesday night. I was playing Left Center for the fabled Gashaus Gorillas in an unnamed inning; there were runners on 1st and 2nd with no one out. A rotund batter waddled to the plate and hit a one hopper to our rotund 3rd baseman (5) who tagged and threw to our rotund 2nd baseman (4) who tagged and threw to our rotund 1st baseman (3).

The Gorrillas got some pussy! I walked off the field and looked upon the grassy knoll behind the fence and saw Jamie Lee Curtis, sitting by a UFO and jacking off a billy goat. And I had hope... I could go on forever but I have bigger fish to fry.

Dear SANTA...

Sometimes You Win, Sometimes You Lose & Sometimes It Rains -or- D Was Surprisingly Not Injured

With several members of the team either out of town or scheduled to wear a wig and sing 80's hits in a pretentious east-side bar, the Gorillas were gonna be short-handed last Tuesday.

[Cues "Hero" by Mariah Carey.]

The team was in trouble. Something had to be done. But what?

["There's a hero/If you look inside your heart..."]

One man knew. He knew that his family had been called upon in such times for generations. But he didn't know if he could do it.

["...You don't have to be afraid/Of what you are..."]

He went to the old dusty trunk in the garage and began searching frantically. He finally found the box 'neath the white satin Adidas hat with the gold rope across the brim, and resting atop a bed of Taylor Dayne posters. It was a pair brown Eastland loafers: the laces untied but in some fancy swirl thingy, and the soles worn thin.

[...There's an answer/If you reach into your soul/And the sorrow that you know/Will melt away..."]

Yes. He would do it. He had to. For the team. For himself. And for Lou Diamond Phillips. He dug through the same trunk and found a casingle. "My Perogative" by Bobby Brown. This would do the trick.

[And then a hero comes along/With the strength to carry on...]

He went and got his daughters Playskool tape player. (It was still loaded with "Hello" by Lionel Richie from last month when he saw that blind woman at the grocery store. His daughter has, in fact, never heard of a "cassette". The player was in his bedroom.) He donned the shoes, and

cranked the volume on Bobby Brown. And he danced.

["So when you feel like hope is gone/Look inside you and be strong..."]

Slowly at first - after all, he's over-weight and has a bad heart - but then he started to recall the nights of his youth at The Victory. His pace quickened. And soon... it began to rain.

["And finally see the truth/That a hero lies in you"]

Some say it was the "running man" that did it. Some think it was the Kool Moe Dee "wild, wild west". Me, I like to think it was the Kid N Play move where he grabbed his left foot and jumped over his arm with the right.

But one thing is for certain: the Gorillas did not play softball that day. (Game rescheduled for July 29th)

Let's Blow Some Shit Up! -or- We're Not Talking About Our Season

Happy birthday, America.

I'm celebrating the 232nd anniversary of the birth of our country by doing what every intelligent, patriotic and large penised male in the country should be doing: I'm getting drunk, eating read meat, and blowing shit up.

I haven't lost a finger yet, and honestly, I'm a little disappointed in that. But I'll give it another shot tomorrow night and update the blog (slowly) if I do.

If I survive, I think I'll go on another vacation.

What I like to do this time of year is try to get as close to the fucking sun as possible. I also like to wait until gas costs more than cocaine, and then go on a 26 hour driving bender that would make John Belushi's partying habits look like a sewing circle. I also like to try and find a beach to pass out on, so eventually Will Smith will fly in and, thinking I'm a beached ocean mammal, toss me into the water. I also like to run into Pete Rose at a dog track and have him charge me $5 to ask him why he has the haircut of a half-a-retard.

And so I'm going to the only place where I can accomplish all of that: Florida. I'll bring you back some grapefruit or a shark's tooth necklace or something.

Oh yeah, we played a game this week. As you can tell by the picture below, it was a theme night. This week, in honor of Flemwad's return from boyscout camp, it was G.I. Wad Night.

We told everyone to come dressed like Tom does on an average Sunday afternoon at the beach. Ironically, he was the only one that didn't. (Melon's wearing a camouflaged speedo under his uniform.)

Good luck next week without me, boys. I'm sure you'll do great. And by "you'll do great" I mean that you'll lose by 15, drink 4,000 biers and sit around telling lies till midnight.

We Can't Believe This Has Never Happened To Us -or- The Middle's Open

Some guy that looks looked like he plays played softball wearing a visor and ray-ban's died yesterday from a fight after a softball game. The guy that hit him - in the back of the head when they were shaking hands and then "took off running" (pussy!) - is not pictured here, but he looks like he probably has worn a similar hairstyle in the past.

Gezus. Sure, some Gorillas have been known to get a little fired up during a game from time to time, but I'm pretty sure we've never been close to anyone getting killed, whether they threw behind the runner or not.

This is why I'm glad Wad will be back tonight. If someone on our team is gonna get sucker-punched, it'll probably be him. And he can only be killed by being dropped into some super-freezing liquid stuff like the first Terminator.

Gorilla Stats -or- Real American Heroes

Celebrity Death Of The Week -or- We're Not Talking About Our Season

There are two names that come up when comedians are asked who they idolize in the business: Richard Pryor, and George Carlin. They're both fucking dead now. So it goes.

Carlin died last week at the age of 71, and ever since there's been a shit load of people saying very nice things about him everywhere you look. They are mostly dumb fucks, they annoy the shit out of me, and I imagine they would've annoyed him even more.

So we're keeping George in our thoughts. Somewhere between "This chair hurts my ass," and "Let's fuck that waitress!"

Of all the funny shit Carlin talked about, one line in particular seems to really apply to the Gashaus Gorillas. "Fuck hope."

Here's the boxscore from last week. Stats will be up in the morning.

I don't know how we're supposed to keep playing softball in a world where there is no Carlin or Vonnegut. But since we don't have much choice, we might as well have a theme night and kick Dynakleen's ass again tomorrow night.

Bring Bier.

Gorilla Stats -or- 2 +3 = 4

*You may notice that we've played five games, but only have stats for four. That is because I'm the only one on the team that can read and write, and I take vacations sometimes.

The Gorillas Would Like To Sell You Some Snake-Skinned Boots -or- Cobra Commander Was A Pussy

The guy you see to the right here is Snake Pliskin. If Snake, as played by Kurt Russell in Escape from New York, was a softball team, he'd be the exact opposite of the team we played this Tuesday past, inappropriately called "The Snakes."

I'd like to say that the Gorillas resemble Kurt Russell's Snake, but in reality we're closer to his Dean Proffitt, the carpenter in Overboard that convinced a then-hot and amnesiatic (amnesia'd? amnesiafied? amnesiastic?) Goldie Hawn that she was his wife, mother of his 4 brats, and that she swallowed. We'd totally do that if we got the chance.

I remember seeing Overboard as a young teen that may or may not have been on the verge of a prolific drinking career. Two scenes really caught my attention: the one where the brats super-glued plates to Goldie's hands, and the part where she opens her bier bottle on the edge of a table. Since then I have splintered many a table trying to open biers, and have spent many a dollar on paper plates, krazy-glue and hookers.


I'm not even going to get into the habits I picked up from watching Private Benjamin.

Gorillas Are Photogenic -or- Gorilla Stats

I've decided not to comment on last Tuesday's game, or the below pictures of hat night, except to relate this tid-bit: When I showed someone these pictures, they said, "Damn, your whole team is getting fat!"

To which I replied, as I believe all Gorillas would have, by saying, "Fuck you. We've been fat."

We'll try to lose a few pounds stomping on some Snakes this Tuesday @ 7:00.

(As usual, click on images to see larger version.)

Celebrity Death Of The Week: Inanimate Objects Edition -or- The Bier's A Little Warmer Today

William H. Macy was really, really good in Boogie Nights, Wag The Dog, and, of course, Fargo. And I'm pretty sure, although I never saw it, that he was really, really good in a movie called "The Cooler."

However, if someone says the words "the cooler" to me, I'm not thinking of the William H. Macy movie. I'm thinking of Mr. Robb.

Mr. Robb (pictured below) is the greatest cooler of all time. No one disputes that. But even Mr. Robb has his limitations. Last summer in Bloomington, he was almost pushed too far. There were too many blue yummies in him, too much ice, and some Ass tried to drag him, breaking a handle. Mr. Robb, great as he is, has his flaws.

Similarily, Mr. William H. Macy has his limitations, his flaws. Fargo was a classic; Wild Hogs, not so much. Mr. Macy is married to Fellicity Huffman of SporstNight (Yay!) and Desperate Housewives (Boo!) fame, and so he no longer says "no" to anything. Thus the load of crap he has acted in since The Cooler.

Not long after Mr. Robb came into our lives, JT found his brother from another mother, dubbed "Mistah T."

Mistah T appeared to be every bit as good as Mr. Robb, only he was often heard pitying the fools that thought there was too much bier in him. He was a great cooler, no doubt, but he did not know his limitations.

Similar to the decline of Mr. Macy's career choices, it was a wedding that ultimately did in Mistah T. The shocking wedding of JT to Mrs. JT apparently led to too much bier, too much ice, in Mistah T. Nothing besides loads and loads of bier could explain JT, an assumed a-sexual, getting married. Nothing besides loads and loads of bier could explain the untimely demise of Mistah T.

So today we mourn the loss of a cooler. A good cooler -nay! - a great cooler. But a cooler with limitations. And a cooler that was pushed too far. So it goes.

All that's left for us to do is remember the tale of Mistah T. Pass it down to our children, and our children's children, so that someday they will remember that all actors, and all coolers, have limitations.

[Oh yah, and it's hat night tomorrow (June 10th) - if it doesn't rain. Honor Mistah T by bringing his favorite: bier.]

Gorillas Stats -or- Oh The Humanity!

After awakening Wednesday morning to the New York Post back page headline: "Gorillas' Gruser Goes Gruesomely Lame" I thought it could get no worse for the Gorillas.

I was wrong.

Yes, we had just dropped a game to a bunch of zit-faced bus-boys & bar-backs -- but we'd lost games we should've won before.

Yes, we had just learned that O.G. (Orginal Gorilla) Flemwad had played his last game of the year, as he had been called upon to serve his country -- but it's not like it was Ted Williams going off to fly fighter jets in World War II.

Yes, we had just learned that Busch Light was going to be on sale at Buy Low for $11.99 for a 30 pack this Friday -- oh wait, that was awesome. Disregard that one.

Yes, we knew that Gruser was likely in traction down at the Posey County Veterinarians Clinic, and they probably had shaved his goatee (along with his ass) in emergency surgery -- but it was probably time for a new look for him anyway.

No, what made it even worse, was the telegraph we got from the team doctor later that morning:

"Snyder has broken wrist (again.) Stop.
Will be out 4 to 6 weeks (again.) Stop.
Will likely ignore rehab and stretch injury and whining about it out for a year (again.) Stop.
It was Beans' fault. Stop."

I remember exactly where I was when I read that telegraph again and again. I stood naked eating a bagel in the company kitchenette. A pained look came across my face. I burrowed my brow. I fought back a tear. And I thought to myself, "I really, really gotta remember to get to Buy Low on Friday and load up on Blue Yummies."

So anyway, yah we effectively lost 3 Gorillas in one shitty loss this week past. The MRI results have not come back yet from McGru, but we expect he'll be out for a while, and will probably have to play with one of those cones around his neck to keep him from gnawing on his leg when he does come back.

Luckily, we had a roster of 412 guys this year. Now we're down to eleven. And one of those is Baumgart, who is just an awkward nap at 2 o'clock on a Thursday away from having a back transplant.

Roster moves may be on the horizon for the Gorillas.

At Least We Had Plenty Of Ice -or- San Diego Grill Is Better

Not too long ago there was an earthquake here in what they call "fly-over" country. It wasn't a huge earthquake, but it was big enough to wake everyone up and knock the picture of Geovany Soto off my nightstand. We don't get a lot of earth-shakin' round here - unless you count that time we tried to build a human pyramid between innings - so it caught some people off gaurd.

There are lots of ways to react to a stressful situation. When the ground started trembling that early morning, the reaction from the Gorillas ran the gamut; from ignorance (D got out of bed and stop/drop/rolled) to apathy (Jeff continued to simultaneously play poker and look up kitten anime on the computer) to confusion (JT yelled at his mom to let him sleep just five more minutes) to panic (I ran across the street and fucked the neighbor's wife.)

So last night, when on the first play of the game McGru added a couple of knees to his right leg, I was curious to see how the team as a whole would react to seeing our emotional and facial-hair-growing leader go down in such pathetic dramatic fashion.

The answer? Not so good.

Sure, we gave it a valiant effort for a while, coming in and scoring four runs in the 1st and three more in the 2nd, but the gruesome injury obviously affected the team's mental state as the game wore on.

I'm not saying the team we were playing (I belive they represent L.A. Grill) doesn't deserve any credit. Obviously they were able to make enough plays to win. And that - along with coming up with a restaraunt with shitty atmosphere, a gimmicky bullshit menu devoid of taste, and a fuck-face snotty wait staff - deserves to be acknowledged. I mean sure, they were mostly little punks that failed their algebra finals because they were home playing Mario Cart and listening to Taylor Hicks songs instead of studying. And sure, they hit the middle like ten times, threw behind runners, and were unusually ugly. But they won the game, and for that, the Gorillas salute them.

That's the thing about the Gashaus Gorillas - we're good sports.

And next time we find ourselves in a stressfull situation, we'll be prepared.

There's a guy down the street that has a 19 year old daughter that looks like she's ready for a tornado.