OUT OF HIS LEAGUE - FOR KEVIN
by Tello Reál, mraspatello@rivalfish.com
"Each Monday, Rivalfish's Rival Room awards two athletes from the previous week that have performed 'out of their league,' for better or worse. As the Jersey Chasers of the land open their mouths and aim for the midsections of anyone wearing a jersey, we at Rivalfish help them navigate the VIP room waters with precision and class" - Rival Room Editor
jer·sey cha·ser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women, and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests.
Nothing in the world, no matter how tragic, is unaffected by laughter. No matter how f*cked up the situation, even for the briefest moment, the mind and body can be put at ease by an unforced chuckle or smile. In truly believing such, I will recount for all jersey chasers and general readers the super sad story of a good guy, friend of us all, and Rivalfish legend: Kevin the Dog.
Kevin was my dog, doggy, best friend, and everything else a pet can be, no matter where you lie on the animal-appreciation scale. He was a six-year-old Ibizan Hound, rescued by myself and my roommates at the Rivalfish Headquarters this past December. He was a Christmas present for the soul, bringing shit, stench, and smiles to the posse. Kevin did everything that dogs do. While chill most of the time, “F#cking� Kevin, as he was commonly called, was a dude-humping, house-shitting, pointless-barking mutt at seemingly-random, dog-appropriate intervals. But two things separated Kevin (pronounced kev-OWN with a hint of angry Creole in the accent) from any pet we had ever known, murdered, or slept with: He absolutely f*cking loved f*cking people and he could pick a Goddamn game of hardwood with the best of 'em.
Everyone has heard the horror stories about pets coming to tragic and cruel ends, due to freak accident or human error. No one thinks it will happen to them, and everyone pities the shit out of kids that it happens to. Nevertheless, Kevin succumbed to such a freak accident this past week that anyone would shudder to envision. What happened was completely unavoidable and unfortunate and unfair, and unnecessary of future mention. But mostly, it’s unimportant. No need to think about the little guy’s sad end. Kevin lived life like Ditka with a lobotomy, loving your attention without knowing why, gushing gusto that caused many slip-ups and spills, but left plenty of juice for endless revivals. He had grown up with some misfortune, only to live out his final half-year with the style he was robbed of during his first six.
After being rescued by Rivalfish and its entourage, Kevin gained near-instant no
toriety with a starring role and stellar effort in the Rival Room’s A Babe, A Dog, and a Dick NCAA Basketball Tournament office pool. Retarded Kevin, and I say that in the most polite and loving of ways, came in second place, eking out the random bar floozy that I subsequently made my girlfriend, and nearly taking down that baldheaded freak. Even Kevin could tell Vitale was ugly. We used to talk about it while I scratched his cowhide-patterned loins and whispered to him that he was indeed my best friend. I’m a huge advocate of full conversations with your loving pets and the pets of others, actively holding down both sides of the talk. Since every decent dog owner knows exactly what his mutt would say if he ever stopped being too lazy to do anything but bark like an asshole, these conversations should occur throughout the day without even minor mental- strain
Anyway, despite Kevin’s established media rap sheet, having been written up in newspapers and on websites across the country, Kevin will be remembered for the idiosyncrasies that build the pedestal for every seemingly-irrationally adored pet. Everyone loves their pet more than they love other people’s pets. This is clearly because of their awareness of their particular pets’ idiosyncrasies and nuances, and their fond appreciation of these things that separate their mutts from those they see strolling the streets with other happy pet owners. Did I just waste that much print with a long-winded attempt at saying “people love their pets because of their unique personalities?� Yes, I did. But eulogies are supposed to be rolling and gallant, so f*ck yourself. Right Kev? (don’t forget his angry Creole accent. Imagine Triumph’s voice mixed with Pepe le Pui’s)
Right Mike, those insensitive f*ckers. I f*cking am dead, man. You write what you want and make it as long as I wished my little-leg to be. Everyone ba
rks in Doggy Heaven, by the way. Told you, you f*cker. I’madog, I’madog, I’madog, I’madog. I’madog. Can-I-get-a- GOOD-dog? Allllright.
Thanks Kevin, miss you like fucking crazy, bro. I’ll miss five minute dog-cuddling work breaks and your tendency to look annoyed at the petting or playing session you had blatantly initiated. I’ll miss watching you try to bite through your own leash and ninja-kicking whoever was walking you directly in the junk. A dead-on bullseye every time. No one has any idea how you did that shit. You didn’t even know how to get down from the couch, or descend stairs you had climbed moments before, but you would take Chuck Norris in a junk-shot race to seven any day, dusk, or dawn. In the dark he’d kill you though, cause I hate to say it, but we all think that might have been a little blind.
We’ll all miss it all, you little dude, even the things we hated. Cause you were a lovable fool that loved us even more than humans know how to love animals. F*ck, do pets do something for a person’s piece of mind, or what? That’s why everyone was down to deal with your shit, literally, My Buddy.
So the least we can do for you Kevin, is give you our attention one last time. Just kidding, we’ll still talk about your gay ass in the voice you made your own. But anyway, go wag your tail so hard your hips gyrate uncontrollably, pulling one or your patented Doggy Front Wheelies. Eat the f^ck out of the trash. Drag it, along with a fresh bag of weed, right out our door and up to a neighborhood patrolman. Piss on your leg, we really don’t give a shit. This is your party, Kevin, and all we need you to do is tell the loose-labiaed ladies of the world which athletes and entertainers to have and not have sex with this week. Yeah, I thought you’d like this. Oh, and by the way, did you get your balls back in doggy heaven? Are they bigger than your tiny junk? I hope so for your sake……..
Oh Mike, you F?ck. You would lace your little eulogy with a goddamn favor request. By the way, thanks for tucking me in that last night. That was freakin’ solid you shit face. Maybe you could have thought of that during the Chicago winter, not the first day it reached 90°.
At least by being such an A+-f*cking-caretaker and letting me get killed, you saved me the misery and torture of having to watch to you chuck your noodle at your oddly-enticed girlfriend. Let me out of the room before you waste 26 seconds of sweet Shira's day, for Christ's sake. Didn’t think I had this wide of a vocabulary did you, Master of Creepy Dog Whispering. Well I f#cking don’t, I’m just chilling in Doggy Heaven with Benji’s alcoholic ass and he’s smarter than any of you Rival Room wannabe journalists. Get a f$cking job, by the way. Get out of the house for the sake of your next dog, you hippie. You’re like having a strict babysitter that flirts with you but immediately scalds you when you start pumping away.
Whatever, I will help you with your little award. So I should help you Jersey Chaser ladies with the loose pantaloons pick a guy to pet on the wiener? That’s f&cking sick. Mike, you call this shit a job, man? I used to wonder why you losers sat in front of that machine all day. Now I know. Had you not let me die like an infant in the care of a pothead pre-teen, I would have offed myself anyway if I knew I lived with smut-peddlers. Sell a f$cking t-shirt and then we’ll talk.
So, hmmm, petting-wiener, petting-wiiiiieeeener, hmmm. Shit. Oh, I know, MAYBE YOU SHOULD ALL GET A GODDAMN LIFE, F&CKERS! SHIT! Baurrghhh. There are a lot of things in this world better to appreciate than some goddamn underachieving showoffs. You were right, I was fucking blind, and thanks for all the ADA-mandated accommodations, you f*cking criminals. But I could find remnants of anything you ate in the last seven weeks and drag it somewhere you wouldn’t notice it for a month. Ooh, a triple double, whoopty-f*cking-do you stinky piece of crap. How about you bitches use those pre-fab nails and collagen-filled lips for itching my belly and giving me f?cking kisses on the snout. Appreciate us doggies like you appreciate it when that bartender with the faggoty Australian accent texts you at 3:30am, you dirty hookers. I’m a f&cking dog, you f&cker. Always cuter than humans. Even that ugly doggy from the news. I’d roger his f*cking face though, I’ll really tell ya. We love you every time you come in the door and are confused like an ESL kid in an AP English class every time you leave.
You people could use a little more time using your imagination by engaging us in some actually deep convos, but I guess I’ll provide the only wit in this exchange once again. Well, like I said, the only thing you Jersey Chasers of the world should be chasing this week is the love and respect of your pets. But I will tell you who not to chase: DO NOT LA
Y Every loser on the Detroit Pistons other than my skinny friend Tayshaun Prince.
Hey “Big Game� Billups, way to go with those 8 assists. Shame you couldn’t score more than 3 points, or whatever it was. I was in bed by the third quarter. It was a blow out. I needed my doggy rest. And oh man! Great jobs with those ZERO f*cking blocked shots. Played roundball with a group of Puerto Rican Greyhounds last Tuesday and knocked one back into Pilsen on those fools. Oh bet you didn’t think I was outshining you has-beens every time you left the gate open. Fuckfaces. Hey Rip Hamilton, how many HJ’s has that mask actually gotten you? Your shooting percentage was as soft as the bridge of your nose, you braided alien. I see why everyone in Chicago hates you pussies. Hey Wallace, the less ghetto one, let me ask you why Dennis Rodman could bring down 20 rebounds a game against Karl Malone in the NBA finals and you couldn’t muster 9 against Michael Doleac? Goddamnit, this is a f^cking joke, I need to go back to frolicking in Doggy Heaven and crocheting myself some tail garnishment. I can’t believe you wasted my time….
What? A W-A-L-K? You mean a walk? Holy shit! Oh My, Oh my God DAMN DAMN DAMN I’madog I’madog I’m a dog. Shiiiiit Shiiiit. Alright alright, I love you, oooh, I love you. Yes yes, yeah, right there, clip on the leash, oh oh, I’ll kick you I swear, two more seconds, two more, alright there! Got you good, motherf#cker! Alright, this way, I’m your friend, I’m your friend. I love you, Friend. Speed up, man. Allllright, that’s good. I’m a dog. See you later….
"Each Monday, Rivalfish's Rival Room awards two athletes from the previous week that have performed 'out of their league,' for better or worse. As the Jersey Chasers of the land open their mouths and aim for the midsections of anyone wearing a jersey, we at Rivalfish help them navigate the VIP room waters with precision and class" - Rival Room Editor
jer·sey cha·ser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women, and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests.
Nothing in the world, no matter how tragic, is unaffected by laughter. No matter how f*cked up the situation, even for the briefest moment, the mind and body can be put at ease by an unforced chuckle or smile. In truly believing such, I will recount for all jersey chasers and general readers the super sad story of a good guy, friend of us all, and Rivalfish legend: Kevin the Dog.
Kevin was my dog, doggy, best friend, and everything else a pet can be, no matter where you lie on the animal-appreciation scale. He was a six-year-old Ibizan Hound, rescued by myself and my roommates at the Rivalfish Headquarters this past December. He was a Christmas present for the soul, bringing shit, stench, and smiles to the posse. Kevin did everything that dogs do. While chill most of the time, “F#cking� Kevin, as he was commonly called, was a dude-humping, house-shitting, pointless-barking mutt at seemingly-random, dog-appropriate intervals. But two things separated Kevin (pronounced kev-OWN with a hint of angry Creole in the accent) from any pet we had ever known, murdered, or slept with: He absolutely f*cking loved f*cking people and he could pick a Goddamn game of hardwood with the best of 'em.
Everyone has heard the horror stories about pets coming to tragic and cruel ends, due to freak accident or human error. No one thinks it will happen to them, and everyone pities the shit out of kids that it happens to. Nevertheless, Kevin succumbed to such a freak accident this past week that anyone would shudder to envision. What happened was completely unavoidable and unfortunate and unfair, and unnecessary of future mention. But mostly, it’s unimportant. No need to think about the little guy’s sad end. Kevin lived life like Ditka with a lobotomy, loving your attention without knowing why, gushing gusto that caused many slip-ups and spills, but left plenty of juice for endless revivals. He had grown up with some misfortune, only to live out his final half-year with the style he was robbed of during his first six.
After being rescued by Rivalfish and its entourage, Kevin gained near-instant no
Anyway, despite Kevin’s established media rap sheet, having been written up in newspapers and on websites across the country, Kevin will be remembered for the idiosyncrasies that build the pedestal for every seemingly-irrationally adored pet. Everyone loves their pet more than they love other people’s pets. This is clearly because of their awareness of their particular pets’ idiosyncrasies and nuances, and their fond appreciation of these things that separate their mutts from those they see strolling the streets with other happy pet owners. Did I just waste that much print with a long-winded attempt at saying “people love their pets because of their unique personalities?� Yes, I did. But eulogies are supposed to be rolling and gallant, so f*ck yourself. Right Kev? (don’t forget his angry Creole accent. Imagine Triumph’s voice mixed with Pepe le Pui’s)
Right Mike, those insensitive f*ckers. I f*cking am dead, man. You write what you want and make it as long as I wished my little-leg to be. Everyone ba
Thanks Kevin, miss you like fucking crazy, bro. I’ll miss five minute dog-cuddling work breaks and your tendency to look annoyed at the petting or playing session you had blatantly initiated. I’ll miss watching you try to bite through your own leash and ninja-kicking whoever was walking you directly in the junk. A dead-on bullseye every time. No one has any idea how you did that shit. You didn’t even know how to get down from the couch, or descend stairs you had climbed moments before, but you would take Chuck Norris in a junk-shot race to seven any day, dusk, or dawn. In the dark he’d kill you though, cause I hate to say it, but we all think that might have been a little blind.
We’ll all miss it all, you little dude, even the things we hated. Cause you were a lovable fool that loved us even more than humans know how to love animals. F*ck, do pets do something for a person’s piece of mind, or what? That’s why everyone was down to deal with your shit, literally, My Buddy.
So the least we can do for you Kevin, is give you our attention one last time. Just kidding, we’ll still talk about your gay ass in the voice you made your own. But anyway, go wag your tail so hard your hips gyrate uncontrollably, pulling one or your patented Doggy Front Wheelies. Eat the f^ck out of the trash. Drag it, along with a fresh bag of weed, right out our door and up to a neighborhood patrolman. Piss on your leg, we really don’t give a shit. This is your party, Kevin, and all we need you to do is tell the loose-labiaed ladies of the world which athletes and entertainers to have and not have sex with this week. Yeah, I thought you’d like this. Oh, and by the way, did you get your balls back in doggy heaven? Are they bigger than your tiny junk? I hope so for your sake……..
Oh Mike, you F?ck. You would lace your little eulogy with a goddamn favor request. By the way, thanks for tucking me in that last night. That was freakin’ solid you shit face. Maybe you could have thought of that during the Chicago winter, not the first day it reached 90°.
At least by being such an A+-f*cking-caretaker and letting me get killed, you saved me the misery and torture of having to watch to you chuck your noodle at your oddly-enticed girlfriend. Let me out of the room before you waste 26 seconds of sweet Shira's day, for Christ's sake. Didn’t think I had this wide of a vocabulary did you, Master of Creepy Dog Whispering. Well I f#cking don’t, I’m just chilling in Doggy Heaven with Benji’s alcoholic ass and he’s smarter than any of you Rival Room wannabe journalists. Get a f$cking job, by the way. Get out of the house for the sake of your next dog, you hippie. You’re like having a strict babysitter that flirts with you but immediately scalds you when you start pumping away.
Whatever, I will help you with your little award. So I should help you Jersey Chaser ladies with the loose pantaloons pick a guy to pet on the wiener? That’s f&cking sick. Mike, you call this shit a job, man? I used to wonder why you losers sat in front of that machine all day. Now I know. Had you not let me die like an infant in the care of a pothead pre-teen, I would have offed myself anyway if I knew I lived with smut-peddlers. Sell a f$cking t-shirt and then we’ll talk.
You people could use a little more time using your imagination by engaging us in some actually deep convos, but I guess I’ll provide the only wit in this exchange once again. Well, like I said, the only thing you Jersey Chasers of the world should be chasing this week is the love and respect of your pets. But I will tell you who not to chase: DO NOT LA
Hey “Big Game� Billups, way to go with those 8 assists. Shame you couldn’t score more than 3 points, or whatever it was. I was in bed by the third quarter. It was a blow out. I needed my doggy rest. And oh man! Great jobs with those ZERO f*cking blocked shots. Played roundball with a group of Puerto Rican Greyhounds last Tuesday and knocked one back into Pilsen on those fools. Oh bet you didn’t think I was outshining you has-beens every time you left the gate open. Fuckfaces. Hey Rip Hamilton, how many HJ’s has that mask actually gotten you? Your shooting percentage was as soft as the bridge of your nose, you braided alien. I see why everyone in Chicago hates you pussies. Hey Wallace, the less ghetto one, let me ask you why Dennis Rodman could bring down 20 rebounds a game against Karl Malone in the NBA finals and you couldn’t muster 9 against Michael Doleac? Goddamnit, this is a f^cking joke, I need to go back to frolicking in Doggy Heaven and crocheting myself some tail garnishment. I can’t believe you wasted my time….
What? A W-A-L-K? You mean a walk? Holy shit! Oh My, Oh my God DAMN DAMN DAMN I’madog I’madog I’m a dog. Shiiiiit Shiiiit. Alright alright, I love you, oooh, I love you. Yes yes, yeah, right there, clip on the leash, oh oh, I’ll kick you I swear, two more seconds, two more, alright there! Got you good, motherf#cker! Alright, this way, I’m your friend, I’m your friend. I love you, Friend. Speed up, man. Allllright, that’s good. I’m a dog. See you later….
R.I.P
Kevin Randy Raspatello
?/?/1999 – 6/2/06
Kevin Randy Raspatello
?/?/1999 – 6/2/06
posted by Rival Room Editor at
12:00 AM
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