picture by Southsideexpat
Hey brohans, its your broseph Bro DiBroggio. I have to brolate a story to you that happened to me yesterday. After a legalization of marijuana rally in the DePaul quad, in which I beat on my bongos until my palms bled, I decided to take a hit of acid and walk south down Halsted preaching the virtues of recycling. So there I am in my turquoise Ocean Pacific tank top from Ragstock, my white umbros from Flashy Trash, shower thongs and purple bandana to keep my flowing locks out of my face while walking into the wind to the southside. I meant to turn back before I got to Bridgeport but my mind was so erased and my message so well-received by passers-by calling me #1 that I kept on truckin'.
Walking past some watering hole called Schaller's Pump I saw some shitter squelching my mellow by flicking his cigarette onto the sidewalk. I told him how we needed to respect mother Earth and how that was a dirty move towards our grandchildren. He told me he didn't give a fuck because he was basically littering on top of litter. He thought the concrete and pavement was a form of littering, what an ignoramous that brodhi was. I started passively aggressively arguing with him on the differences between the two and a horde of midtown jocks spilled out of the bar and a big dude in a red Harold Baines jersey held me by my ankle over an open manhole. They abused me like a piñata with their leather belts, I can't even remember the last time a dead animals skin or flesh had touched my body and I was so sick I wanted to hork, brohans. That's when the meathead who had me by the ankle said good night and released his grip. The last thing I remember was saying, "This is not rad bro" as my skull rushed to meet the bottom of the sewers.
I don't remember how long I was out man but when I woke up some little dude with big ears was gently slapping my cheeks. After he helped me up, I was all like, where the heck am I? He told me I was in the land of Hugs and Teddy Bears. He offered me a golden lollipop, which I could not refuse and I tasted it and it tasted like heaven. I asked the little dude what flavor and he told me sunshine and I was like, that makes sense because my soul had been enlightened because on the third lick I got to the center and it was gnarly.
I said to the little man, "My name is Svess Svessterson. What can I call you little brah?"
He said, "I am Brent of the Lil'Bridge, 3-time MVP of the major baseball leagues."
I told him how I loathed sports and how they seemed to harsh everyone's groove and get people all bent out of shape and shit. I told him how I thought it was totally unfair how much those clowns are paid to play a child's game. He went off into a righteous diatribe about how in the land of Hugs and Teddy Bears players are paid by their level of commitment to off-field charity work and by their actual performance on the field. If a bro gets grumpy and shit, shoots up a smoothie bar and plays like a chooch he ain't getting paid dick.
I told him how it was fin that bro's be juicing to get the upper-hand. He told me that in this land the only steroid anyone takes is if it starts raining liquid sunshine and that those drops have the same effect and take the players higher than any chemical could. Plus if someone does take chemicals they get a 180 day ban on hugs. He assured me this was a fate worse than death for bros. He told me sport was worshipped in the land of Hugs and Teddy Bears. I asked him what about religion, like Rastafarianism and he looked at me like me felt bad for me and he said there are no wars here.
After that we rode a giant toucan through purple clouds to Gumdrop Park to take in a game. First thing I noticed was the lights in the park were little raisin bran suns with Rayban's and two scoops. I said what up and they reciprocated like good bros. They reacted to the game like all the little fans. No one in the park was ugly but no one was real hot either, everyone, men and women were pretty much on the same level of effortless cool. The music in the park was all deck…it consisted of some Neutral Milk Hotel, Waaves, Cut Copy and Chandeliers. The vibe was sweet. I threw a few berries to a vendor for a Blueberry Bock bronson and a licorice rope and he gave me a fist with an explosion at the end. The outfield walls were made out of cotton candy and I saw Brent run over a couple times between innings to snag a couple pieces to munch. The bats were painted like candy canes and the balls were all sorts of neon and shit. It really added to the chill ambience. The players wore headbands instead of hats and no player was visibly better than the other. Although some sourpuss broheim behind me remarked that Brent's team, the Sugar Sox, were the worst offense in the league. Which was apparently wrong since they were second to last in offense.
In the 7th inning stretch, while Davy Jones sang 'Pleasant Valley Sunday', I went to the bathroom and some little tassie who had too many bronson's let me peach her in the stall, I tried to put on a lambskin but she had never seen one before. She probably got my clap but it was all sunshine and lollipops. After we parted ways amicably I got back into my seat in time to see the ump catch a G. He totally brodyed a call at the plate, it was clearly a ball. He took off his mask and cried but the Brent happened to be up so he gave him a squeeze to make him feel better and everyone gave him a standing ovation and the official scorer gave his team a run. The Sugar Sox were up 1-0 now!
We got some free baseball with the game going into extra innings after the Brent let the other team score, in an effort to not make them feel bad. So I got some veggie tempura on a stick and another lemon flavored Bronson. Someone passed me a jilly and I took a few tokes and thought this was the best day ever. In the 14th when the Brent came to the plate it started raining and everyone stopped to bust a moby for a while. A freckled little chipper took a liking to me and gave me a smooch after our Charleston was through. Everyone in the park knew the Brent would hit a dinger when the game resumed on account of the sunshine drops so the pitcher grooved a fastball down the middle to make it easier on him. Both teams celebrated at home plate after the walkoff.
My chipper, the Brent and I hit up a brumby afterwards for a few jugs and right when I started thinking I never wanted to leave the land of Hugs and Teddy bears my piece started ringing, I fumbled in my hip-pack and got it out and it was my biddy in real-life harshing at me that I missed the canned food drive. That is when the sub-reality slipped away and I found myself in a pile of flowing sewage getting laughed at from above by the Bridgeport toughs. I gingerly climbed out and hung my head all the way home wishing I was still with the Brent in his magic land. The best part of a trip is the reflective end. I'll bet they have a drug in the land of Hugs and Teddy Bears that bypasses the heinous parts of the trip and takes you right into the reflection wave.
I tell this story because I think this is how reality needs to be, people feel so entitled to be shitters and stomp on parades. Peeps need to find some Snocones made of frozen sunshine and seek out a chill.
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