The Wit & Wisdom of Martin VanBuren

Numerically, the 8th President. Objectively, the best ruler in the history of man.

December 08, 2004

President's Guide to a Beat Down

Over the last several weeks I have avoided speaking about the unfortunate series of events at the Palace of the Auburn Hills, but on the eve of charges being brought against the players and fans I do believe it is time to break my silence.

Regular whores, very disappointing First off I'd like to note that the name the Palace of the Auburn Hills sounds very exotic. I would have expected it to be filled with halls of gilded gold, wafts of smoke from incense and opium, harems of dancing girls garbed in the finest silks.

A big wood floor, plastics seats and some painted whores squeezed into mini-skirts does not a stately pleasure-dome make.

I should not have expected that a suitable Xanadu or Shang-Ra-La could be constructed in the wilderness of the Michigan Territories, but one can always hope for more.

But I digress.

Smells like shitI found it most unfortunate that the Pacers of Indiana decided to charge into the viewing stands to accost their tormenting audience.

It's just a terribly ineffective way to seek revenge.

Once an all-star rounders team from Albany came through Kinderhook challenging the local men to a tournament to prove their superiority with ball and bat.

We of course accepted the challenge.

During the course of the game one of their bench players hurled a tankard of ale at one of my basemen.

Of course in my time, tankards were made of pewter and of a sufficient weight that my teammate's skull was split asunder.

We did not immediately take our revenge, merely asking the official to re-establish order and verbally chastise the offender.

Sometimes, you just have to kill a man's horse. After the game however, my friend Gary brought in the town constable and accused the team of littering and public lewdness. While the bulk of our rivals and the constable were distracted, we separated the offending tankard hurler, held him to the ground and broke his wrists with rounders bats.

We then tied him to his saddle and horse, which we shot so that the horse would run wildly for many miles before bleeding out and collapsing, hopefully on the douchebag's legs.

I can't remember who won the game that day, but when a cockface gets his comeuppance and no one gets caught, we're all winners.

The chase ain't over the battle ain't done yet
Get your ass out of town before sunset


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