Sunday, December 18, 2016

What the hell, Minnesota?

Doc's readers have praised this site's entertainment value. This post provides none.

Doc is just baffled. Where the fuck have we come from, if this is called progress? Was it so goddamn bad in the past? Was it that goddamn bad, that this world of entitled rapists and abusers and fuck-you douchebags can just run rampant and we think this is a better fucking world? How can we even begin to think we're better than we were? 

I'll come back to that. First some news. 

Minnesota Golden Gophers. Fuck sake fellas, come up with a new name. Now you're the Minnesota Turtleheads. Why not? Your football coach has one pokin' out. I'll get back to that too.

Thursday, July 28, 2016

How Rowing Hosed my Life


"You know I'd take a bullet for you, Emfbo. You know that, right?"

That was LoBear, the Big Man, a few months ago. I'd never thought about it that way, but of course it was true. Of course I knew it. And of course it was mutual.

Who wouldn’t take a bullet for this Big Man?

Doctor Frank has put some time into thinking about that ever since. The same question keeps wrapping itself around Doc's brain and it won't let go. Where did this guy come from?

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Breaking News... Live from the Senate


Yeah. Garland is out, this guy is in. God Bless America. 

Washington, DC (Emfbo Press) -- President Barack Obama has withdrawn his nomination of Merrick Garland in favor of dark horse candidate Mark Roe, Prosecuting Attorney of Snohomish County, WA. The president announced today that he chose to take the advice of blogger and political pundit Doctor Frank Emfbo, author of the instant classic Boys in the Boathouse, a rollicking, nonsensical tale that was, of course, not true. None of it happened, insists Doctor Emfbo, which is why it's called a novel.

But we digress. Obama's terse statement revealed his decision.

"I made a mistake, all right? Garland is out. New guy is a former Husky oarsman, still listens to Devo, plays hoops with attorneys on Fridays. He's 56 and still has knees. What's not to like?"

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Dear Mister President...



Hold up a second there, Mister President. 

Doctor Frank and his buddies Al and Raoul have drafted an open letter to President Obama. They have the perfect candidate for Supreme Court, loved by all except the bad guys. You don't get 70% of the vote without support from both sides of the aisle. Just check out that brilliant smile, and the huge brain in that huge head. Read on...





Thursday, February 11, 2016

Story of the Year




 
That’s some story, for sure. Unprecedented five in a row. Unprecedented nine team trophies in a row. Unprecedented sweep of all five events.

They have pictures on facebook, Husky rowers hanging out with Michael Bennett. Holy Cow.

And Doctor Frank couldn’t be prouder. But damn, I couldn’t help just looking back.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

What About Ernie?



The man could pull his weight.



Doctor Frank is pissed. And embarrassed too. You see, a Husky legend, Bob Ernst, was fired for doing his job. And that Husky legend happened to be the guy who was Doctor Frank's gruntie coach back in 1976 when Ernie was in just his second year coaching at Washington.

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Friday, November 27, 2015

Reviews


Advance praise for
The Boys in the Boathouse




“I laughed, I cried, I soiled myself... Can’t wait for the movie!”          
- Devo

Thursday, November 26, 2015

Epilogue - The Day We All Died


The Boys in the Boathouse
A Novel -- really, none of this ever happened -- by Dr. Frank Emfbo

Epilogue
The Day We All Died.

You won’t see Doctor Frank getting all weepy over this. It’s not his way. He won’t recreate “Bye Bye, It’s Dik Erickson’s Pie,” filling new lyrics with old jokes that only Dog Rowers would understand. Someone else can do that shit. Doctor Frank is not a poet.

But Doctor Frank is not alone when he says that something crushed me deep inside, the day Dik died.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Chapter 17 - Knarr or Duchess?


The Boys in the Boathouse
A Novel -- really, none of this ever happened -- by Dr. Frank Emfbo

Chapter Seventeen
Knarr or Duchess?

Beef or chicken? Pork or fish? On a scale of food from drinking your own piss to filet mignon, the Knarr was a can of generic chili. The Duchess was Dinty Moore beef stew.

The rest of the college crowd favored O’Banion’s. Dante’s. Rapunzel’s. The intellectual elite hung at the Blue Moon. But we wanted our own place, where nobody would know us. Where we could just be ourselves.

The Knarr would let anyone in, at least when Marcia was working. Tulla had his Dibby back home, the one he’d marry a month after graduation. But for now he’d flirt with Marcia just enough to get her to let us all in. What could possibly go wrong? It was just a couple dozen underage crew guys plus their dates hanging out in a dive bar where the other customers just kept to themselves and let us go nuts.

It was a shit hole. Still, it was a club, but not a nightclub like you’d imagine. The club president wasn’t a slimy mafia boss in a porkpie hat at a dark corner booth. The president sat on an elevated chair like a baby in a booster seat. He was Coon, feisty little fucking peckerhead coxswain. I, president Coon, call this meeting of the Knarr Club to order. Do we have any new inductees? You? Have you retrieved the urinal cake? Ah, good. Under the powers vested in me I hereby command you to bite that fucker in half!

And the sucker would bite the cake. The tough guys would just pick the damn thing up barehanded straight out of the urinal, bring it to the table and make it happen. The weenies – I was going to say the smart guys, but is any of this shit smart? – grabbed it with a paper towel and washed it off first.

Either way, if the bite was not effective or pleasing to the eye of the little fucking peckerhead president, back the sucker would go to get another one. It was not unheard of to bite three cakes before the club membership was deemed acceptable.

Other than a bunch of rowdy underage crew guys who may well have kept the place in business, it was pretty quiet in the Knarr. The shuffleboard table kept us entertained while we waited for the pool table. And it was a rare thing to have a stranger step up and drop a quarter for the next game. And, other than shuffleboard, pool, beer, urinal cakes, and Marcia, we eventually ran out of reasons to say “Aaaarrrgh! To the Knarr!”

The Duchess actually carded people. Usually everyone. And it was just a step up, chili to stew. It was also more for serious drinking and carrying on with a select few members of the rest of the public. But the dive bar ambience remained. Doctor Frank had picked up the habit of chewing snoose and spitting in one cup while drinking beer from the other, which is awesome as long as you remember which is which. The owner of the bar actually walked by and told me to spit on the rug instead. “tobacco bits fuck up my dishwasher,” he said. So I gave him the glass and spit on the floor. It was easier for both of us.

The Duchess had an edge to it, an attitude that was lacking at the Knarr. If the Knarr was ‘ludes, the Duchess was speed. Even a big crew motherfucker didn’t want to mess with anyone there. We were lovers, not fighters, anyway. Take Tulla for instance. He comes out of the Duchess all pissed off and yelling about something, a guy takes exception and tells him to shut up, Tulla goes to fight him, the guy pops him two quick ones and it’s over in like two seconds. Kind of a bummer to be Tulla with that big bandage on his schnozz the next morning.

Now and then our lady friends would come looking for us at the bar. Now and then they’d find us with our arm around someone else. Now and then they wouldn’t find us at all, and they’d end up with someone else’s arm around them, or they’d make their way to the Connie looking for us. Doctor Frank recalls this one particular time, lying in his top rack in the boathouse, nearly asleep, when his roommate’s honey pounds on the door wondering why he wasn’t at the Knarr like he said he’d be. He gets up to open the door and nearly falls over from the beer stench.

Roomie’s girlfriend sways in the open doorway, arm around her wing woman. As Doctor Frank recalls, wingwoman’s name was Jill. She was a stubby little one with soft eyes, curly hair and big lips that were always wet. Chitchat ensues, another door opens in the hallway, and our neighbor who shall remain nameless steps into the hall. He spies Jill, having seen her before on another visit, tells her how beautiful she is and how much he needs her company. She smiles lustfully and pulls him into his room. Before the door closes, roomie’s girlfriend hollers after her to make it quick. They gotta get home, plus these stud athletic specimens have practice in the morning.

Not even ten minutes later, we hear our neighbor’s door open and shut. Jill walks in, licking her lips. “Mmmm, that was tasty. And quick,” she says. “Let’s go.”

Jill is wearing a beautiful blue silk top. Roomie’s girlfriend takes a closer look, still weaving, trying to focus. She points just below Jill’s chin, and slurs, “What’s that? Jill? Is that…”

Jill looks down. “Dammit! I thought I swallowed it all! How am I gonna get that stain out?”  Now she’s pissed. “This top cost a bunch of money!”

Girlfriend puts her arm around Jill, comforting her. “Honey, honey. Just tell the drycleaner you spilled pop on it. Or ice cream. Whatever, they’re miracle workers. And one more thing…

“If you’re going to do that, always take your top off first.”

Who knew? A lesson learned after a trip to the Knarr would go all the way to the Other Washington and the Oval Office, three thousand miles and twenty years later.