The Irish Duals

I just finished watching the Cubs spring game against the Brewers on WGN from outside the Donegal bar on Columbia when I spotted them. They were already drunk as hell, staggering and singing Mellow Drops’ Phantom. Well, the short one could sign some, but the tall one should have been humming, but I wasn’t going to tell him.

And man, I’d never seen two people who needed the Queer Eye guys more than these two retarded motherfuckers. One was at least 6’6”, uber red hair, skin as white as a ghost and was wearing an old, faded Jethro Tull t-shirt and a pair of cut-off denim shorts that were cut way too short, like something you’d see in Boys Town. The other misfit must have been wearing his daddy’s pants, ‘cause it looked like he’d lost about a hundred pounds. Add the Glenn Hughes mustache and leather jacket (actually his daddy’s old one), and he might win a prize at Carols Pub on Karaoke night.

The Glenn Hughes-wannebe was Michael Flanagan. His old man was tough as nails, used to be a Gaylord back in the day. The giant was Sean, Michael’s cousin from Kilkenny. Physically, he was an Irish version of Alonzo Spellman. Enough said.

From what I understand, Sean didn’t have any prospects back in County Kilkenny. Everyone, including his dear Mother, had given up on him. He meant well, but just didn’t get it. He didn’t get it in grammar school, couldn’t pass the Junior Certificate exam, and found out after two years that he wasn’t Irish Defence material. After much debate and some haggling, his mother’s cousin who lives near the Dubkin Playlot, agreed that Sean could move here and live with the Chicago Flanagan’s and she could get him a job as a gofer with her son-in-laws construction company. Unfortunately, he also has lazy tongue syndrome to go with his think Irish accent. By that I mean his words are not recognizable when he gets agitated or overly excited.

His cousin Michael was a real treat for people in the neighborhood. A ladies man, he would make it a point to tell everyone who would still listen that he would someday produce and direct his own movies. Unfortunately, he didn’t even have enough talent to write a bad check.

So anyway, these two dumb-asses go inside, with no cash or any other means to buy a pint. Correction, their only commodity was their God given stupidity and Jeff Craven knew it. Craven also knew the Flanagan family for thirty years and knew that fucking with these two would do nothing but bring a smile to their faces.

“Tell you what guys, I’ll buy the winner a yard of beer ” The Flanagan boys looked at the old man like he was nuts, so Craven told them that they should go outside, race down the street, on foot, to Sheridan and back. The winner gets the beer.  Sean agreed, but Michael said that he didn’t want to get his leather jacket all sweaty. Craven told him he’d hold it behind the bar, and besides, nobody in here would wear that piece of shit in public anyway.

About ten of the old timers stood at the door, each with wearing a shit-eatin’ grin. The Cubs had lost again, so they needed a good laugh, even at the expense of these two goofs.

They took off at “GO!” Michael had the lead within five steps, holding up his pants and never looked back, winning by fifteen feet.  Back inside the bar Sean was pissed that his cousin didn’t share the prize and asked Remy if they could race again. Not wanting to upset the giant retard, Craven said “Ok, this time race around the block”.

Again, they took off at “GO!” and again Michael took an early lead as they turned onto Sheridan. He had about a ten foot lead, despite having to use both hands to hold up his pants, as Sean was getting pissed (hello lazy tongue) and started yelling “You’re not gonna win this one Michael”. But to people walking down the street he sounded like Charlie Manson after smokin’ an eight ball, with a mouthful of Sharon Tate.  Going in the opposite direction, all that Officers Williams and Guerrerro saw was a fucked –up mustache, holding on dearly to his pants while being chased by a giant Ronald McDonald. Trying to make a u-turn on Sheridan is an impossible task, even for the man, so they lit it up and took a left at Farwell.

Meanwhile, Sean was watching his cousin cross the “finish line” and thought about dropping him on the spot. But he knew that would mean going back to County Kilkennycheap the next day.

Craven and the old-timers were trying their best to keep their comments to themselves, even as one of them called 911 about two lovers quarreling in the street. Genius.

And Michael, not only three sheets into the wind now, he was also in deep shit with Sean for not sharing the wealth again. He knew what he was doing, but the Einstein in him told him to at least give Sean the back wash.  Another part of his tiny brain said “Fuck it, we’ll race one more time and let him win.”  Sean knew that no matter what he had to beat his cousin and have a cold one and retain some of his pride.

Williams and Guerrerro got the call about the lovers’ quarrel, put two and two together said a collective “Aw, shit”

Walking out the door, Michael has the bright idea of taking off his shirt so it could dry out. Add that to Craven’s instructions to race barefoot this time made for an interesting twist.


The drunk micks both take off like bats out of hell and again Michael had a good lead turning the first corner. And again Sean was doing his best, albeit unintentional, Manson imitation. As they took the second turn Michael did understand two words from Sean mouth “Your” and “Sister”. Right then Michael decided he needed another beer and cranked up the pace, turning it into a twenty foot lead as they turned the last corner.

By now Williams and Guerrerro were at turn one, Columbia and Sheridan, and could see Michael behind them, turning the corner holding up his pants and yelling something at the redheaded giant behind him. It sounded like “That’s why you got a lazy tongue, Bitch!”, oh, a lovers’ quarrel, right. Guerrerro slams it into to reverse and makes a break for the action. Williams, meanwhile calls for back up just in case this turns into more than a he said, he said deal.

Seconds later they see Sean take the corner, like Michael Jackson sprinting to the kiddie pool.  Booyah! He flies into the mustache, knocking his pants down to the ground and starts yelling something that sounds like “Chauncey raven close teapot”.  Next thing I know guns are drawn, Guerrerro is yelling at the cochino to pull up his pants and Williams trying to determine what the fuck is going on when she notices Craven and the old timers laughing their asses off. He explained about the races, apologized for the confusion, offered to take the boys home. Which he did only after Williams got a new sponsor for her softball team.

Categories: Northside View | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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