23

Last Saturday featured one of the most epic games we’ve seen in a while, ending with the fucking pond scum Mets pulling out a 2-1 victory in 20 innings.

Fucking pond scum.


I happened to catch the last 4 innings or so because I snuck into the heavy hitters club at the Fox Theater. I happened to be arm candy that night for a young lady that wanted to go to the Bob Costas benefit. And when your options are Jennifer Hudson or the Cardinals game of the decade, desperate times call for desperate measures. So we found that game.

Good call. Because even Kevin Johnson
ripped the concert in the Post-Dispatch and I’m fairly certain he gave AIDS a so-so review.

15 minutes after the whole thing ended and bazillions were raised for cancer kids, I was at a complete stranger’s wedding taking pictures with the bride.

Wait, wah?

I don’t know why it occurred to the 4 of us, but heading down to Washington Ave, we happened to have to park across the street from Windows on Washington, a fairly nice reception venue. We saw some people our age coming out shit canned, and somebody mentioned that they’d never crashed a wedding before.

Game on.

We’re in the elevator now and the lady won’t press a button until we tell her the name of the bride or groom. Fuck if we know. We try everything short of guessing randomly and a very awkward 5 minutes later some other guy gets on and says the name for us.

‘Yeah- that’s it- the blah, blah, blah wedding!’

Thankfully a program was right at the entrance desk and I tucked it away in my pocket as we sauntered up the bar.

My advice, if you ever do this? SELL IT. We were different people that night. We went up the bar and ordered triples. We asked old people if they could believe these crazy kids made it. We grabbed randoms and started dancing like our feet were on FIAH! We were fucking WEDDING FUCKING CRASHERS man.


It was sweet. 

After about an hour me and the other guy I was with got a real sack on us and took our dates cameras to get pics with the bride. Then a couple of bridesmaids showed up and wanted to play party pics with Team Awsome too. It was all fun n' games until this real serious woman approached us and asked who exactly we knew here.

Ummmm.

Bob?

“Bob who?”

Ummmm.

Bob Johnson?

“OMG. You guys are real life wedding crashers, aren’t you?”

Ummmmm.

“Because that is SOOOO FUCKING COOL! You’ve got to me my friends- they’re in the wedding too!”

If I could bottle that shit right there and sell it, I’d be Steve Jobs, motherfuckers. Steve Jobs!

Unfortunately we had dates, so we had to leave with chicks other than the bridesmaids, rendering this a good story and not the best story. Of all time. But I think it makes a point about the St. Louis Cardinals in 2010.

Jim Rome calls it the ‘Freak Factor’. Meaning when you’re rich and famous, you can have a perfect pair of titties in your mouth any hour of any day- nonstop. And you’re going to get tired of it. So what do you do? Turn up the freak factor. It’s the reason Eddie Murphy bangs transvestites or Hugh Grant gets caught with hookers with peni or Big Ben sticks his grey dong in anything with a pulse… they know they can get what every other man craves anytime they desire it. They’d rather be freak huntin’.


The Cardinals are an excellent team. They’ve won 10 games and every one of the series they’ve played in so far this year. With the epic fail of the Cubs so far, they’re about 2 weeks away from clinching the Central. So, really, the only thing that’s going to get our collective rocks off are games like last Saturday’s where you’re seeing shit you never thought you’d see.

Much like that high I got from crashing a wedding; it’s not coming around anytime soon.

So what do we do? How do we avoid boredom?

I don’t think I have the answers for you now. I think we’re going to have to set some silly arbitrary goals for players and the team and see if they can get them. 110 wins? 5 players with 20 HRs? I mean whatever we want, I suppose.

Whatever we do- we need to forget that Mets game as soon as possible. That buzz isn’t coming back. And the sooner we accept that, the later we get busted with tiny dicked hookers.

Aaron Hooks writes every Thursday for InsideSTL. He can also be found at
CardsDiaspora.com and Bleacher Report. Follow him on Twitter.

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