Some of you may recall my sincere efforts to get our plucky little team a sponsorship from Hot Doug’s, the self-proclaimed purveyor of encased meats. It seemed a natural choice, given that I myself have been frequenting his establishment since I was a tot, back when he was still on Roscoe and no one gave a rat’s ass about his fancy-schmancy hot dogs or much else. Well, except for those of us in the know – those of us who made him who he is today, really.
Receiving no response to my email was devastating indeed, but I managed somehow to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and move on, with the help and support of my closest friends and a steady supply of Amaretto Stone Sours.
I had almost managed to push the dark memories of this whole incident entirely to the back of my mind, siloing it to where we cordon off all the things that scream “don’t ask – don’t tell!” So you can just imagine how my innocent little world was shattered forever the other day, as I was brutally and unexpectedly confronted with my fiercest demons. There I was at the rink, walking out of the locker room all innocent and naïve, happily ensconced in TashaLand and replaying in my head my usual dazzling display of hockey skill and talent.
And lo, what did I see? Well, other than a bunch of cute, hunky hockey guys, that is. (mind wanders) Wait, what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, the trauma. The Logo. THE Hot Doug’s logo, on a team called the Chicago Leafs, for god’s sake. Here I am, offering Mr. Doug the fame and glory of having his logo on our blog, where it’ll be seen by at least several people each day, and instead he goes with slapping the wiener onto the jerseys of a bunch of beer-swilling hockey players, where it’ll be seen by the same 12 people each week (i.e. other team members), and then will be stuffed into a stinky hockey bag where mold will grow on it. And I’m the one who didn’t even get a response to my email??? Oh, the humanity!
Me, walking out of locker room, whistling a cheery “I Am Pretty”, then stopping abruptly: What? What fresh hell is this? You guys have the Hot Doug’s logo on your jerseys?!!
Cute hockey player guy: Yeah, our goalie has connections.
Me, sputtering: But….but…..my friends and I are doing this crazy, dangerous, insane Alcatraz triathlon in San Fran, but when I contacted him, I didn’t even get a response to my email!
CHPG, grinning charmingly and looking amused, or perhaps bemused: You need to have the inside track, like us.
Me, blathering: I live less than a mile from his damn hot dog emporium! I live on hot dogs! What more is there?! How much more inside track can one get?
Another CHPG: You should have gotten in on the ground floor……
Me, practically foaming at the mouth: Ground floor?! I was going there when he was in that little shack on Roscoe! Why, I’ll take that ground floor and shove it up his a……
First CHPG, looking even cuter: Yeah, I think most of us probably have never even been there – our goalie just knows a guy who knows a guy….
Me, muttering in a decidedly non-cute way: I’m so jealous I can’t stand it……
And I then stalk off down the hall, with my big hockey bag slung over my shoulder, whacking these poor CHPGs left and right – I’m all for leaving a trail of men in my wake, but not quite like this.
So not only did this little bit of manna from heaven just effortlessly fall into their laps, but note that they remain “The Leafs”. Hmph. It’s not as if they offered to change their name to Chicago Encased Meats, or the LeberkaseLeafs, or even, say, Hot Doug’s Honeys. That I could understand. But this..…this…..complete disregard of my own humble entreaty while heaping schwag and logos and god knows what else on some cute but random hockey guys, well, it’s a mockery of everything our little blog stands for. Whatever that is. Free stuff, I think.
And just as bad, not only do I get the proverbial “you’re not good enough” kick-in-the-teeth from Hot Doug’s, but I also come across as a crazed, screeching loon in front of a veritable sea of hunky men.
Great, just great. Chalk up yet another little episode in the long-running series called “Why Tasha’s Still Single: my so-called Schleprockian life.”
Needless to say, so-called “Hot” Doug, you are now dead to me. The next time I go into your little hot dog emporium, I will be forced to shun you, going Amish as I refer to it. So, instead of speaking to you directly, I’ll tell my dining companion what deliciously tasty encased meat I’d like, with nary a word to you, my good man. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it has to be. I have very exacting principles, you know.