D'you guys know Eric, Ken and Andrew intimately?
Do you wish you did?
Take it back. That's gross.
I've got a few things to share. Some are naked photos, some are delightful anecdotes and choose-your-own-adventurey tales wherein you the reader will probably feel a wide range of emotions (greatest of which being love) as you soak in what I knowz about these guys.
Let's start with Eric. I met Eric some twenty-seven years ago working at the anvil factory in Western Hill, St. Catharines. It was probably about 3:53pm and my workmates and I were just about to take the faulty anvils over to the aforementioned Hill for a good roll-about when a lanky yet somehow still incredibly muscular man approached me with what looked uncannily like a tire iron and a dead ferret. Though the objects were 'unrelated' to one another I had a pretty good feeling about this guy's jib and the cut it originated from. That summer we didn't tire iron at least sixty ferrets to death. We didn't learn taxidermy either so I'm hard-pressed to explain where my lifeless weasel army came from.
Ken. Keeeeen, Keeeen, Keeen, Keen, Ken. Kn. I don't know if anyone's familiar with the actual terrain between Sneaky Dee's at College and Bathurst and the intersection of Queen and Coxwell, but this year there was a night of nachos and other demi-cooked Mexican-ish foods that started with a loud proclamation like "THIS IS THE BEST NIGHT OF MY LIFE!" and ended with our beloved hero walking the approximate 8 km back to the hotel, terrifying locals with his surly gait and threatening facial hair. We lost Ken for a solid couple of hours but were mostly not worried because his ape-like skull usually bounces right off of hard surfaces, and the Don Valley Bridge is pretty sturdy from what I hear.
Lastly but never leastly there's Andrew. The man who made me guess what his middle name was for nearly eight solid days and nights because he made up a "ten guesses at a time" rule. The man whose caveman diet has basically transformed any of his refined habits into grunting and striking small animals (and women who talk back) with wooden/stone composite modernized (possibly also galvanized?) cave-people clubs. It took me at least five minutes to remember that cave-people used clubs. I kept wanting to say bats, which is coincidental because Andrew's also the guy who Babe Ruth was pointing to on October 1st, 1932 when he called his own home run. Up til' now y'all probably thought he was pointing at a seagull or a futuristic (to the folks at the time) blimp. NOPE. ANDREW.
World Series trivia aside, anybody would be lucky to have these dudes in their life. Send them e-mails! Tell them you feel the same way! Wear protective headgear around ALL of them. You think I'm joking but I've never been more morbidly serious.
Be careful.
Chomps
