Jersey Trip #1
Oh my God I'm in New Fucking Jersey! Let me preface something before I begin, even though it has little to do with this particular entry, everyone I've ever met from the trash state is like every Canadian I’ve ever met: Anything and everything that comes from their respective homes is great, even though it's usually not: Jon Bon Jovi, “Garden State,” Barenaked Ladies, Rush, to name a few. Any who, my point is, if they think things that suck are great, then logically if they think they're great than they actually suck. Suck is an infantile and generic word, but it fits here.
First of all, there's nothing like the sound of Jersey hoarseness. A strained speech pattern genetically passed from parent to child and heading for lung cancer. Again, I digress. I took the bus, New York Port Authority, God Bless 'Em. I was given an incorrect gate number on the phone, but after fifteen minutes of panicked wandering, I was directed toward the right gate. Automated ticket retrieval and up on an escalator to a narrow, glass-enclosed structure. Effortless really, all those years of waiting in lines at Disneyland and the movie theaters, we humans are trained slightly better than animals. Speaking of animals, an older man, maybe 60, although most people look twenty years older than they are out here, was wearing a delectable piece of fur on his head. Dark, greasy, slicked almost, I must applaud in disappointment at gentlemen who feel the need to cover their balding heads with somebody else's hair. Be like me, shave it all off in shame. Or wear a yarmulke. Either way, that extra unnatural monstrosity on your head draws shame to your obvious shame at being genetically defective. Or just go kill yourself cuz we got a population problem anyway. Sorry, thinkin’ Jersey has got me talkin’ Jersey.
Once the bus got moving I was disoriented to say the least. Spinning in circles and into a tunnel within minutes of departure, I thought about the possibilities of car accidents in the tiled tube. Ridiculous accidents, five to ten car pile-ups, ripping through the tunnel walls with water flooding everything. It played out in my head like a movie. And before I knew it, we arrived at the non-descript Continental Airlines Arena. The Meadowlands. A crazy little gigantic sports complex. I think 37 teams play there.
Before the game a high school choir performed. 10-15 pasty white kids singing a capella, a group of them awkward boys beat-boxing, Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe.” I had to look it up. I recognized the song, but was mesmerized by the hip-hopified, embarrassingly craptastic rendition of an already horrible song. I never want to be at a sporting event early again in my life. Although right before the players began to warm up, my favorite song played on the PA: “chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side.” Brilliant!
I was attacked during the game. And it’s all the damn mascot’s fault. The mascot and those stupid t-shirt guns. 7 foot mop fired it right at me. I sat there uninterested while a herd of idiots grabbed for a free t-shirt—these being the same people willing to fork over hundreds of dollars to watch grown men put a ball in a hoop. One of the cows sat two seats to the left of me, his son in the seat next to me, while two elementary-aged kids reached for the flying ball of cotton. It landed directly between my nikes and aforementioned cow two seats over dove through my crotchal region, almost dislocating my left knee. He crawled under me and retrieved the prize, holding it in front of the children in triumph. That wasn’t even the peak of the evening.
Fearing I would be stranded in New Jersey forever, I departed the game before regulation and headed to the bus back to New York. A mistake on my part given the game went into double overtime, with over three hundred points scored. Had I stayed, I wouldn’t have been privy to the events that followed on my return back to New York. I wasn’t the only fan eager to leave. One by one, then two by two, then three by three, people started to board the bus. By threesies, the driver was overwhelmed, allowing one robust, crew cut/mop-top punk past him without dispensing his ticket. The driver screamed at the fatty to come back and give him his ticket, however the corpulent pimple made his way to the rear of the bus, attempting to ignore the driver. The other bus inhabitants began to rally behind the driver, screaming for him to give the driver his ticket. One such rallyer was an older gentleman in Montana plaid sitting in the first seat next to the driver. He screamed the loudest for the guy to “Get off the fucking bus!” Pushed back to the front of the bus, the punk pleaded with everyone that he just had to find his ticket, that he bought it earlier. Nobody wanted excuses, they just wanted justice. Now at the front of the bus, he pleaded to the man in seat one, “Chill out, man.” To which the man responded, “Get off the bus!” The punk, instead of attempting to retrieve his ticket, instigated a fight with the man thirty years his senior. In hearing all the commotion, a bus official boarded the bus and calmly attempted to get this freeloader off the bus and the rest of us on our way. The punk then turned his fury onto this nice gentleman just doing his job. This obviously wasn’t the first time some trash instigated a fight and tried to board a bus for free and within moments a few more officials boarded and apprehended the freeloader. Everybody cheered.
Driving back to New York, listening to Miles Davis’ “Freddie Freeloader,” staring through steamed windows, we passed a shopping mall with Christmas lights aligned: Peace on Earth.
First of all, there's nothing like the sound of Jersey hoarseness. A strained speech pattern genetically passed from parent to child and heading for lung cancer. Again, I digress. I took the bus, New York Port Authority, God Bless 'Em. I was given an incorrect gate number on the phone, but after fifteen minutes of panicked wandering, I was directed toward the right gate. Automated ticket retrieval and up on an escalator to a narrow, glass-enclosed structure. Effortless really, all those years of waiting in lines at Disneyland and the movie theaters, we humans are trained slightly better than animals. Speaking of animals, an older man, maybe 60, although most people look twenty years older than they are out here, was wearing a delectable piece of fur on his head. Dark, greasy, slicked almost, I must applaud in disappointment at gentlemen who feel the need to cover their balding heads with somebody else's hair. Be like me, shave it all off in shame. Or wear a yarmulke. Either way, that extra unnatural monstrosity on your head draws shame to your obvious shame at being genetically defective. Or just go kill yourself cuz we got a population problem anyway. Sorry, thinkin’ Jersey has got me talkin’ Jersey.
Once the bus got moving I was disoriented to say the least. Spinning in circles and into a tunnel within minutes of departure, I thought about the possibilities of car accidents in the tiled tube. Ridiculous accidents, five to ten car pile-ups, ripping through the tunnel walls with water flooding everything. It played out in my head like a movie. And before I knew it, we arrived at the non-descript Continental Airlines Arena. The Meadowlands. A crazy little gigantic sports complex. I think 37 teams play there.
Before the game a high school choir performed. 10-15 pasty white kids singing a capella, a group of them awkward boys beat-boxing, Maroon 5’s “Harder to Breathe.” I had to look it up. I recognized the song, but was mesmerized by the hip-hopified, embarrassingly craptastic rendition of an already horrible song. I never want to be at a sporting event early again in my life. Although right before the players began to warm up, my favorite song played on the PA: “chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side.” Brilliant!
I was attacked during the game. And it’s all the damn mascot’s fault. The mascot and those stupid t-shirt guns. 7 foot mop fired it right at me. I sat there uninterested while a herd of idiots grabbed for a free t-shirt—these being the same people willing to fork over hundreds of dollars to watch grown men put a ball in a hoop. One of the cows sat two seats to the left of me, his son in the seat next to me, while two elementary-aged kids reached for the flying ball of cotton. It landed directly between my nikes and aforementioned cow two seats over dove through my crotchal region, almost dislocating my left knee. He crawled under me and retrieved the prize, holding it in front of the children in triumph. That wasn’t even the peak of the evening.
Fearing I would be stranded in New Jersey forever, I departed the game before regulation and headed to the bus back to New York. A mistake on my part given the game went into double overtime, with over three hundred points scored. Had I stayed, I wouldn’t have been privy to the events that followed on my return back to New York. I wasn’t the only fan eager to leave. One by one, then two by two, then three by three, people started to board the bus. By threesies, the driver was overwhelmed, allowing one robust, crew cut/mop-top punk past him without dispensing his ticket. The driver screamed at the fatty to come back and give him his ticket, however the corpulent pimple made his way to the rear of the bus, attempting to ignore the driver. The other bus inhabitants began to rally behind the driver, screaming for him to give the driver his ticket. One such rallyer was an older gentleman in Montana plaid sitting in the first seat next to the driver. He screamed the loudest for the guy to “Get off the fucking bus!” Pushed back to the front of the bus, the punk pleaded with everyone that he just had to find his ticket, that he bought it earlier. Nobody wanted excuses, they just wanted justice. Now at the front of the bus, he pleaded to the man in seat one, “Chill out, man.” To which the man responded, “Get off the bus!” The punk, instead of attempting to retrieve his ticket, instigated a fight with the man thirty years his senior. In hearing all the commotion, a bus official boarded the bus and calmly attempted to get this freeloader off the bus and the rest of us on our way. The punk then turned his fury onto this nice gentleman just doing his job. This obviously wasn’t the first time some trash instigated a fight and tried to board a bus for free and within moments a few more officials boarded and apprehended the freeloader. Everybody cheered.
Driving back to New York, listening to Miles Davis’ “Freddie Freeloader,” staring through steamed windows, we passed a shopping mall with Christmas lights aligned: Peace on Earth.
posted by Zachariakis at
1:03 PM
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