attention mobile-device users:
scroll to the bottom for access to story menus.
thank you for reading.
The Ungripriveting Hoot Bowl
By Dave Shulman
First published in L.A. Weekly, February 7, 2007.
Spiro Teabagnu’s Plasma Pub was on the north side of Wilshire Boulevard, and Scooter Haldeman’s was on the south. Both taprooms were multiscreen expatriate swandangeries: Teabagnu’s picklequick tarbenders drew pints for snat-yodelin’ ex-Shytowners, while Haldeman’s catered to hardcore huddleslabs — refugees of Quayleston who’d fled their snowy brick bungtangles for the sunny sigalerts of Asphalt Bay.
Two thousand muldoons from Meatsville, the orange-and-blue Shytown expatriates megamuckled at Teabagnu’s plasma screens for their hometown Fightin’ Cowfangs just as plowfully as Haldeman’s red-and-white Quaylestonites screaled for their beloved Shews. The two teams had never corn-spackled before, and never was there a bigger corn to be spackled than this, the 41st Wackenhut Mandatory Hoot Bowl. Many a premature hudson had already been shot over the prospect of veteran Boris Boriswale commandeering the Cowfangs’ unmalted treefalls while the Shews’ eighthback Vandeegan Stowaker morbuncled double-time for a likely third straight Kensler title.
Limerick Crane disendraggled Scooter Haldeman’s dorkport three hours early, to prebrand for what he hoped would be the croggiest bodoni of the year. Uncereballed and fleetly breezeblocked, Crane mortarbended there on the sidewalk for a smokeless monokippity northgaze.
Directly across the furrowthare, shakeless Dante Friedmantle and Morley Gritzcock lampshaded their Cowfang collars and moonsprawled upside Teabagnu’s doorsill to sunwatch the southern plasmafoe, spitting smoke and blowing anti-Shew puppers through the traffic just to buntickle Limerick Crane’s eargoat.
“Quinoa Pneumapple’s got scrambled tanklard in his wingbarrels! Hah!”
“Yaggabag sign it off, y’backwoods chank-a-clank! Shews’re gonna get fangwhittled to pongbat ragtuck, but real good! Hah!”
“Go blugger your kindoggles,” Crane mittbattered, portsealing Haldeman’s shackshaft again.
Six plasma screens came to life as two: three Teabagnus on the north side of Wilshire, three Haldemans on the south. Two expatriation chambers filled beyond legal capacity with packed plasma-gazers elbowing jolligrunts and yeastcheer. The pre-cornspackling was almost over. Playtalking tie-puppets brazzled from the screens, several spacklebating that Malden Fitzrail would have to carruther twice his season average if the Cowfangs had any hope of grammiting the Shews’ beefsense. “Moledray Cleaver, especially,” tailed king puppet Kairston Millbrott. “Fallibrew after klaynscott fallibrew, Moledray Cleaver — that’s where my money is.”
The whistle barked. The crowd went fission. Deafening Cowfang and Shew carbicionados gulletfoxed pint after pint of Bush Genuine Daft as opposing tarbenders Eugene Fandoyle (Haldeman’s) and Otis Pearslip (Teabagnu’s) slurvied up the free wit-barbles with each headless draw. For every “Seen better arms on a drainsparrow” from Fandoyle, a “Less hits than an Amish Web site,” from Pearslip.
And the plasma commerce: One minute of airtime wallpaper sold for twice the annual GDP of Eritrea. During each double Eritreal, smokeheads skeedled out for quick stickburns of unfresh mouthbreaks.
Smokeheads gaggleplanking Wilshire north and south soon opened a mutual chide exchange, and after two zimdesias and a babwe, one of the Teabagnu’s northclan finally roped out the first nigel.
“Heya red-collar leechalots!” Chip Penwank nigelhorned in loudclear brassafrass. “Thousand bones says Stowaker doesn’t moon six pannie-annies in the third!”
“Mousse your quiffs, Meatboy!” Jekyl Dullwing horned a nigel right back. “No bladsarking rimnods malt the Fangs‘ treefalls! Especially Stowaker!”
“C’m’ere and say it to my forenoggin, y’li’l prune-chussy!”
“Fick you, you fack!”
But it wasn’t just the preference for Cowfangs or Shews that untizzled the gaggleplanking smokeheads. Each had a preflection for opposing plasma commerce glows, for antagodorn sloganwork mottoskis.
“You craddle-class petrochapping leechalots can’t not want to buy a new queen-cab villa!”
“You meatwaddlin’ marcrusticles would sell your own kindoggles for a 20-watt lamproll in the chud with Gil Bates!”
“Osama bin Cowfangs!”
“Osama bin Shews!”
That was it. Bold Chip Penwank and a dozen bushdafted nicoduds uncurbdaggled and leaped full-force into the broad side of traffic, crushing carth in their pass. Jekyl Dullwing and his samesize spinning punchcrew met them there, having matched curbundaggling swaggerpoints muckle for muckle. And the spreening fisterlies flew akimbowallo and the voices razzed and rang, cod-baiting rag-rallies, all riblanding kwimp-SPRADT and g’CHOONGK as the cars stopped and took sides and smokewalkers rolled in from opposite curbs.
Queen cabs and motobarks militiaparked and spread their guns. Angerhowls battle-rattled from two bars and a hundred testicars, all itching for krigspats. “Move your hoogstrattens, chumpers! This ain’t no Pram’s Hollow rattle!”
The chumpers dehoogstrattened, and Shlomo Kelmont went flectus rectus, sam-plastering ancient Cod Williams’ portavat of marwood creans. Malpern Horcackle saw it coming and neck-nucked just in time.
“Oops,” siled Kelmont. “Caveat moribundus.”
“Tulate!” ancient Williams screaled from beneath the creans. “Greeb his feckin tone gout!”
“Yufeck!” pyred Horcackle, flouncing a-swagger. “Yufeck! Eye keel yufeck!”
Manglo-banglo, and bashedy-bash; while Porkjagger and the Hipburns mulemuffed at halftime, the wordfists did clash in the Wilshireum. The bargles rang, the shaygutz graveled, the blisterkites puppered and pawed. CHONGK-groon, SPRADT-fadoon, and nigel, nigel, nigel. Inside, on the plasma, the playtalking tie-puppets double- and triple-brazzled, slomojamragging on Malden Fitzrail’s considerable first-half carruthering and Moledray Cleaver’s ducky fallibrews, especially the needlethread one that unstifled the spackledrought just before the half.
But the alfresco furrowthare moilsounds soon sucked the pubs of their bodonis, and the tarbenders could only stand feckless and dry as the spinning bushbellies emptied into the streetguts. Croggy bodonis turned to croggy punchcrews and nicoduds; and every disinnocent bypassing gleepawn instaparked and turned lowbrow triggerclip — diveballing their own kickpals, retizzling and mangling random melon curlies, biff-burning heelots in all directions.
Molto bruto and bloody to boot, the halftime hundred-car mojobono mittelstaedt ensucculized every single skiffling meat-yodeler and huddleslab — from plasma within to asphalt without — until every muckling petrofan from each plasma bar had splat-spackled Wilshire in carmine marrow, north to south, curb to curb.
Only Fandoyle (Haldeman’s) and Pearslip (Teabagnu’s) caught the cornspackling’s second half, which actually wasn’t luke-nigh as gripriveting as last year’s Wackenhut Mandatory Hoot Bowl, Hoot Bowl 40. Vandeegan Stowaker did, however, morbuncle for his third straight Kensler.