Last Sunday, those fucking hipsters from the Brooklyn Kickball league gathered at The Woods to close out the 2009 season, which lasted four and a half years and involved more plot twists than the secret script Tarantino wrote in the Video Archives bathroom one night while railing banana-slug lines of glass and Adderall. The friendly folks who man the taco truck at Metropolitan and North 3rd St. drove the whole operation over and slung tacos out back, Miller provided three kegs of shit beer, and a scrumptious cake was supplied by one league authority who does not appreciate it when people point out his resemblance to Dave Attell (shades of the latest episode of Curb here).
Flip-cup, cake-eating (insert pun here), racist jokes, white-person dancing, and copious Jameson consumption ensued. Some assholes decided that chasing whiskey shots with pickle juice was a good idea. Turned out it was. Who knew? Like chicken-n-waffles but you end up barfing all over your shoes and missing work waking up slightly later than usual the next day.
Despite the presence of all these vital components of unnecessary Sunday-night debauchery, something was missing: Gawker. If you, like most other cubicle captives, pass your weekdays before noon reading bullshit like this very “‘zine,” you might recall that Gawker’s aspiring fameballs grew a massive hard-on for “Kickball Hipster” mockery just last year. Sometime in the past twelve months, though, the hipster kickball beat writer either got canned or found a job that didn’t involve giving a fuck about narcissists like Julia Allison; the relevant posts now read “contact information for this author is not available,” with bylines removed.
So here you go — the much-discussed EXCLUSIVE! DCQ drunk-photo gallery of all the totally normal partying:
