Humor by Tom McLaughlin My experiences at Brewers Alley have been limited to watching the sleek young ladies maneuver their way through the cadres of handsome professional males in the ritual Friday night pick-up game.
No, I was not part of the scene, just a wistful onlooker while having pizza with a group of friends. The establishment sells beers I have never heard of to men who have that three-day shadow look that I can never figure out how they do it.
The women, of all shapes and sizes, have that preying mantis appearance that any male who dare treads on them in a bad way will immediately be consumed. They have this wary tiger move that says I have already consumed several males in business this week so watch out.
The eyes pierce outward, scanning the scene, while eager suitors hope to catch their eye but not the fangs. If either one of these individuals had too much to drink and were ignored by the cleanup staff over night, they certainly would have taken the pledge the next morning when they might have seen, in their bleary hung over state of mind, as Alderman Joe Baldi bounded into the room in a pair of red, white and blue boxing gloves to the theme song from Rocky and began punching the air at imaginary foes; read Mayor Jennifer Dougherty.
Even if somebody had wandered in for a cup of coffee, mistaking the ale-laden odor for Maxwell House, and saw a balding, short, bow-tied-clad gentleman prancing about the room wearing patriotic gloves, he would immediately switch to decaf and wonder if Timothy Leary baked his breakfast bun.
I have read where one can get testosterone-laden inoculations to help remove the belly fat that I have exercised so hard to get rid of, but I would never hope they would turn me into a boxing kangaroo in a drinking establishment at 10 A.M. in the morning.
Looking like a wide eyed maniacal escapee from an insane asylum, although many would contend a meeting of the Board of Aldermen is just that, he began his campaign by stating he would take back our city. From whom, or from where he did not say, but the implication was he would soon be on a spaceship to rescue it from aliens residing on the Planet Mars.
The performance, he said, was partly an effort to prove to the constituents that he can step up to the plate. I believe he can step up to it, eat it, spit it out and catch a fast ball with his teeth and then turn cannibal and go after the umpire.
He obviously relished the idea of inferiority complex when the reporter asked if the Suzuki Motorcycle he posed with in a recent issue of Frederick Magazine was his. The answer was a resounding YES, and one fears what happens to him after the sunset as he rides through Frederick County raping and pillaging and burning villages.
Whoever his campaign manger is - or was - should be drawn and quartered for thinking up such a mind-altering stunt as that. In a bar? At 10 A.M.? Did he ever leave from the night before? Was he cruising for the young ladies, got lucky? Forgot his hat?
And then he wanted to tell the world with the Rocky theme playing on the loudspeaker and boxing gloves? The front-page picture of the Frederick News Post did more for Mayor Dougherty than anything else, stopping his campaign dead in the beer suds.