March 1st 11:30am - Broken Knees and Debauchery

"Love the college students and hobos of San Francisco with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. Punish them not, as they are smashed. Do not be afraid or terrified of them, as the are sloshed and know not what they do. The Law shall descend upon murderers, thiefs, and rapists."
-San Francisco Police Department 1:3

The SFPD have encountered me and my friends while stammering down the street with nothing but fake ID's and unintelligible utterances. The police did nothing. Because of complaints, the SFPD were required to search my friend's apartment. They discovered marijuana and a bong. The police did nothing. The SFPD observed as fifty-five underage college students played sloshball in Golden Gate Park. While we heckled and howled the hoots of the hammered, children's four-year-old birthday parties fringed us. The police did nothing.
Two friends and I heralded one Saturday morning sun by visiting one of our foremost friends: Safeway. We purchased Vodka. By eleven in the morning, we had each drained six shots of Vodka down our tracheas. We put pygmy-sized drops of lemon juice in our shots, so the crippling mutilation to our throats and stomachs was caused by lemon juice and not something that tasted like rubbing alcohol. A Washingtonian had transmitted brilliance to us through the lemon drops. His most notorious quote: "Elephants have the largest penises... No, no, wait, what are those black things... Oh, right, African Americans."
By one in the afternoon, my friends and I were in Golden Gate Park playing our first game of sloshball. Sloshball is kickball. With kegs at second and home base. You have to chug-a-lug an entire beer at second base and refill before proceeding to third. You restore beer supplies at the home base keg. Result: Oftentimes second base is populated by legions of girls struggling to down twelve ounces of piss water. My teammates and I prided ourselves more on our drinking ability than on our soccer skills. We played Division-1 in both alcohol and soccer. As this was our first participation in sloshball, we marched with our standard operating procedure: get drunk and then go out. It hadn't occurred to us to arrive sober at a drinking event with a noon start time. This was a rookie mistake. Sloshball is called sloshball for a reason.
While everyone else was on their fifth beer and warming up their alcohol intake, extravagant loss of coordination, balance, and logic handicapped me and my two friends. When we were up to bat, or kick, we made mistakes. I kicked the ball and sprint-swayed to first base. I arrived, collapsed, righted myself and celebrated my first base run by dancing like a crack fiend. I hadn't realized that Sober Jackass had caught the ball and I was out. When my friend Twat kicked the ball, instead of darting to first base, she shot across the pitcher's mound to second base. She planted a hand on either side of the keg and ninja-kicked her legs in the air. Nobody was on base to hold her legs up for a keg stand. Fifty-five college kids watched as she persevered with the double-legged-donkey-kick for three minutes before someone assisted her. Twat repeated the bat-and-scurry-to-second-base two more times. Hours later, I staggered into two male soccer players.
"I really want to tackle someone," I announced.
"Um, okay. Tackle her," one of them said.
I lowered my head and declared my dominance by football-linebacker tackling the designated target. My target was Twat. I injured her knee.
The remainder of the afternoon and night remains a magoogled blear. Twat, Fi-T, and I recall finishing the Vodka handle before going to a seven o'clock basketball game. Our coaching staff was there, as was one of our friend's older sisters and a few recruits. We passed out through the entirety of one of the biggest games of the season, and then went to a party hosted by the baseball guys. Fi-T threw a bottle out of the apartment window at someone. We went to bed at four in the morning.
We were told the next day that on our return from sloshball, we stopped at our friend's apartment. We jumped on our sober friend's bed in our shoes and slathered her bed with mud from our knees and feet. Another friend saw Fi-T standing in the middle of the food court, a tray taxed with cereal, a sandwich, brownie, toast, banana and peanut butter, pasta, milk, and cake. The tray tilted in her hand while her eyes were paralytic-closed. Our friend righted the tray and guided Fi-T through the cashier and to me and Twat. We sat in the cafeteria and chanted about how much we loved sloshball.

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