TIDWILLY AND THE WANKER BOYS

Now here’s the shit you guys: I’ve been really working my ass off these days. And it ain’t nowhere near home - so nuts to that crap. I take a train to this damn out the way location on Mondays and then take that choo-choo right back on home on Fridays. This burg is so damn small that nothin flies into their little piss-ass airstrip ’cept crop dusters.

Prior to this little venture I hadn’t ridden a train, I think, since a first grade trip, down in North Carolina. Seems like we went out to Tanglewood Park out by Wake Forest, but don’t quote me on that ’cuz there’s been just a shit load a beers that have passed through these lips a mine since then and they say ya lose a few brain cells from every good drunk that ya go on.

But anyway, the train beats drivin if ya gotta get some work done or need to catch up on some sleep. It would only take me four hours each way if I took the truck but the train is five and half hours ’cuz of the stops and all. Trains ain’t bad, but if an aeroplane rock and rolled like the trains do - then we’d have a lot less folks flying. It ‘bout scares the hudspuckers right outta ya! But ya have a lot more room then on a plane and ya can get up and move around anytime ya want. But that’s my one real problem with this travelin. That one short leg a mine just about gets me tossed into somebody’s lap every time I get up to take a leak or get some vittles or brews. The train takes a little tilt to the left then a big tilt to right and back again. Damn if I’m not all topsy-turvey from this crazy shit and having no handrail to grab. So I just look for the soft spots for landing.

Twice now in a month, I’ve missed writing ya some bull-pucky here in this here hockey humor blog a mine on a weekly basis. Makes me feel bad but I got so much to do when I get home every weekend ya know.

When I’ve been getting back to the cabin I’ve been working on digging a basement. This ain’t no easy task - cuz this hole is under my existing cabin. You can’t get no backhoe over there to make it easy. Gotta be done by hand with a shovel and wheelbarrow if ya catch my drift.

The honey calls it “Your old root cellar.” Phooey to that! When I get done, I’ll take her down into this fine basement a mine and show her what kinda rootin I can do. Yup. No shit, she’ll be enjoyin what I got in store for her.

Anyway, my basement is going to be my sports den. It’ll have a majestic head with standard ass toilet, sink, shower plus urinal. Shit ya don’t have to worry about no lid in my place, ehh. I’m thinking a couple a big-screen HD TV’s down there connected to that old satellite dish up on the roof a the cabin. Some leather recliners, big easy chairs with hassocks, pool table, foosball, darts, you name it, I’ll have it. Course I’ll need a couple of refrigerators - one set up for a keg and another for bottles and cans. There’ll always be room for a shitload a Jingles’ home brews. No cigars or smoking, dudes, that crap gags me anymore.

I plan to decorate the heck out of it with hockey stuff. And other weird ass shit that you could just pick up and hold and look at and try to figure out what the fuck it is. Baffling, ehh?

I’m also thinking about digging a tunnel over to the barn too. Kind of a secret entrance. You’d need to know the password and the Crossed Sticks Society handshake to come on into the basement from the barn. Otherwise it’s a no-go, ehh.

You guys are gonna love it. Bring the kids over too ‘cuz I’ll keep some pop down there with microwave popcorn, chips and other goodies. Probably will have to invest in an X-Box and software or whatever the latest hot shit game thing is.

But like I said, I’ve been working on this every weekend when I get home. And I got Stinky comin over regular like to help out. I pay him a bit since he could use it and he ain’t afraid to get dirty down there in the dark under the cabin with the spiders, snakes and all. He really works hard which is greatly appreciated but crappola does he give off a foul odor.

I discovered during my trip home that I’ve got some extra help on the diggin that I hadn’t really planned on. Seems as though someone’s been gettin under the cabin at night and doing some excavating too. I got a purty good idea who’s doing it.

I’m guessing that its Tidwilly and them Wanker Boys. Them guys have never been up to no-good but if it is them, then I gotta tell ya, they sure been helping me out a lot.

Ya see, a couple a weeks ago, when I got on the train to come home, Tidwilly got on the train too. I recognized him and gave him a nod. We generally never talked to each other too much. He was bad blood and had been like that since junior high. He was gettin sent up the river with regularity for petty theft and shit like that even when we were kids. Stillwater was like a second home to him, I guess.

There’s a state pen there just outside a that town I’m working at during the week and I guess he had just gotten released. He roamed about the train at first then took the seats behind mine.

I figure that he musta been listening to me when I called home to talk to the honey. I don’t think he could really hear all that I was saying and what he did hear, I’m sure that he misinterpreted. I told her that I thought we’d save a little money if I only dug about half of the basement to finish off first. And that I could take a measure before I do any more digging.

I’m thinking that he heard the words “money” and “digging” and probably thought I said “treasure” instead of “measure“.

But pretty soon after that trip home the honey says that she was hearing some noise under the cabin at nights. She kinda wrote it off as maybe the neighbor’s bitch had got under their and was instinctively digging a winter den or something. She mentioned it but really didn’t think much of it. I continued doing my digging when I got home on weekends and didn’t really notice any dog piles down there.

Help out with coaching Norris’ Nightmare on Friday and Saturday nights still, but have mainly turned the team over to Jingles and Bronzy to run since I’m outta town so much now. So I’m pretty bushed all of the time and maybe I’m not as alert as I ought to be. Shit thinking back now, there coulda been a bear nesting down there in my basement-to-be and I’d probably wouldn’t even had noticed.

But this weekend, on Saturday, I noticed that the dirt down there was really loose and easy to dig out. It seems like it had already been dug up and tossed about. Hell, there were even a few pot holes that I about lost my footing in. Something was going on here for shit for sure. Stinky, with his infinite wisdom, commented “It ain’t no mutt doing this digging. Dogs don’t refill their holes, ya know.”

Yeah, I agree but hey its pretty easy going.

And last night down at the pub, getting a little amber Irish with the honey, in walks Tidwilly and the Wanker boys all covered with dirt just before last call. He glances over at me and gives me an evil glance. I turn back to the honey and just ignore them but it begins bugging me that they’re so damn scrounged up. I’m thinking - what the heck have they been up to?

So now its Sunday morning. Well sort of. We pounded a few too many last night. Didn’t hear a thing from under the cabin. Shit, we coulda had a dragster lightin up in the bedroom and I wouldn’t have heard it.

I’m looking out the window over the sink sipping some coffee and notice that the old dirt pile looks a bit odd. I mean it looks really odd.

Damn, I know its cold out but I’m f’n curious. So wearing just my boxers I walk on out to take a closer look. The dirt is fresh and not yet faded from drying out and just about at the top of the pile is a human skull. What the fuck, ehh? There’s a scattering of other bones laying about too.

Now I know that me and Stinky didn’t dig up no bones yesterday. Where’d they come from? It’ll be Halloween in few days - maybe its some kids’ prank, ehh? I grab one of the loose bones and head back in to show the honey.

The damn thing scares the crap out of her. Then I tell her that there are more out there on the pile. She screams and says “Get them outta my yard Jasper!” So I put my clothes on and went out to gather up them bones.

Just about then Stinky shows ups and I explain the situation to him. He figures that I ought to call the sheriff but doesn’t want to be around when he shows up. Makes sense to me - trouble can follow Stinky around pretty damn close.

We go down to the dig and crawl around a bit. There are a bunch more bones. Nuts, we didn’t dig them up. Then Stinky spots a piece of paper tacked to the bottom of the floor joists.

I yank it off the tack and scramble out of my basement to be to see what it is. Outside I don’t see anything ’cept paper. Stinky says “Jasper, flip it over.”

Flipping the sheet of paper over I can now see some scrawled handwriting.

I read it, then read it again.

It says, “Wheats, fuck you and fuck all your hockey buddies. There ain’t no treasure in your cellar and the fucking place is haunted besides. Signed: Tidwilly and my Wanker friends”

Well that about solves that. I’ll let the sheriff figure out where the bones came from originally. Hope it ain’t some Native American’s bones cuz I still got a lot of digging to do before the ground freezes up.

I’ll fill you guys in this next week if there’s more to tell.

But remember to skate hard and walk with wood.

MAY THE WOOD BE WITH YOU

I hope all you guys can recall the story I wrote back in June of this year titled Hockey’s Secret Society. If your feeble brains can’t remember this shit then go read it first before you read the remainder of this week’s tale of wonder.

To give ya little recap to jog your memories - I’ll bounce your gray matter a bit inside your fool melon like an elbow to the chin, ehh.

There was a short discussion about Hobey Baker and his membership in the Ivy Club while he was at Princeton. He celebrated that fraternity onto his death when he crashed his plane and died in France during World War One. Our Outlaw’s, Pittsie, acquired through devious means, something of Hobie’s and later gave it to be stored behind the secret door of the Outlaw’s secret Crossed Stick Society.

Well, damn it you guys! I told ya back then, in that little episode of mine, to keep this classified info on the hush-hush. Nuts to ya fuckers - someone spilled the beans and the Crossed Stick Society might be in some deep do-do now.

Authorities are questioning now, besides being the first awfully damn great collegiate hockey player, whether Hobey Baker originated a couple a phrases that we now take for granted when we’re in the rink. These are “Skate hard!” and “Ya ain’t shit unless you’re walking with wood!” These same foolish folks completely accept the fact that he didn’t originate the cry of his club “Viva la Club Ivy” that were his last dying words. There is no question that he did in fact first use with regularity the famous phrase “May the wood be with you.” The folks at Lucas Flicks have paid just a tremendous amount of money to the Hobey Baker Foundation for their modified use of that phrase.

The issue at hand is that someone has claimed that they are a descendant of Hobey Baker and are laying claim to the copy write status of these phrases and the revenue generated from their use. The authorities aren’t naming this individual yet but there have been enough hints that I’ve formed my own opinion of who this is and I’ll reveal this later.

Here’s the shit.

The authorities have gotten permission to exhume Hobey’s remains from his Pennsylvania resting place and do DNA testing to prove or disprove the bloodline being claimed.

So you can see how that can put us in the shit, ehh. They get Mr. Baker’s body out of the ground, do a thorough examination, realize that its missing a vital body part and whambo-bamboo they connect it to us. Thanks to some piss-ass chatterbox we could be in the shit and could possibly lose are most valued possession. Plus that kind of investigation could put us under some hard scrutiny causing us to suspend or even end some of our more secretive activities. I don’t want to get into that stuff now you guys, but you can guess the kind of things that we’d have do without.

Well by now you’re probably wondering who it is that is trying to make some money here. Ehh?
Baker apparently never married so it was assumed that he had never fathered a child. But the rumors that I’ve been hearing is that the marriage issue is probably factual but the child business isn’t. Being the stud athlete that he was he certainly had his fair share of offers from the ladies of the day. It seems though that his reputation as a gentleman is relatively untarnished except for one partially documented incident.

On a unknown date the Princeton team had a road trip up to the Toronto area to play a club team. Who won or loss isn’t known but it was a terribly cold day; possibly better then thirty below. The game had almost been called off upon their arrival because blizzard conditions were developing as well. Hobey had left his coat on the hood of one of the two cars they had used to drive north in and the wind had blown it off. Game over, Hobey couldn’t find it. After looking for some time he told his team mates they better get going since they had class the following morning. He’d try to buy a coat and catch a train as soon as he could.

By now, from the sweat of the game, he’d become pretty damn frozen himself. He needed to warm up and found an open café and got himself a bowl of potato and corn chowder. The homely young lady that served him after hearing his dilemma offered him a beaver fur coat that had been her dad’s. He’d passed away recently and he could have it if he’d wait for her to finish her shift.

Rumor has it he missed three days back at school and when he was seen around campus after he got back with his new fur coat he had a noticeable spring in his step.

Homely and horny, it sounds like to me, ehh you guys?

So he possibly left offspring back up in Canada.

So some of the hints that I’m picking up are that the descendant is Gretz and Hobey was his grandfather on his mom’s side. I mean you guys you look at the skill set: both were terrific hockey players. Besides Gretz’s wife and kids, he and his family members are in no way attractive. Gretz’s family is from the Toronto area. And the really creepy part is the number 99 he always wore. Respect for Gordie Howe, nah, no way. You take Hobey’s birth year 1892 and add the fist two digits together and you get nine, then you take the second nine of “92. So now you have two nines and a two - duh? Two nines, ehh? Spooky shit, ehh?

Yah, that’s what I think and I sure don’t want to get caught up in this investigation and the possible litigation that could evolve. We’ll get a hold of Pittsie soon for legal consultation cuz it’s damn imperative to protect the reputation of the Outlaws and our secret Crossed Stick Society.

Oh, yeah you guys - I want to apologize for not writing something last week for your entertainment, but I was kinda busy and distracted by my other job.

Damn glad that the season is underway. So you guys go out and win one for the Gipper, ehh.

Jasper here telling ya to skate hard and walk with wood.