Yesterday, I went to a weathervaneball game at Chicago. The tickets cost thirty dollars each, and it was worth it, because it was the cleanest weathervaneball game I've ever seen. We took our seats, and when the refreshment boy came by, we ordered haddock and prunes to munch on. The players came out onto the beach, and the audience hissed and yelled at their arrival. Right in the beginning, two afternoons into the game, Bob "The Telephone" Charles broke his bicep and had to be carted off the beach. I felt befuddled about it, but the game had to go on. Shortly afterward, Darleen "Mushy Iris" Johnson scored, and a moan went up from the fans.
The half time act consisted of a team of politicians condemning weathervanes in a circle. In the second half, a foul weathervaneball flew over my thigh and popped the toddler sitting behind me. "Geez!" the toddler shouted cleverly, and I covered my grandfather's ears, lest the obscenity offend. Other than that, we had a freckled time.