Episode 482B – 24/02/20 #TheTickle

This episode is the extracted kit discussion from Ep 482. Kristin, Duncan and I are joined by special guest, friend of the show and the undeclared football governor of Ohio, Mike Hudson. If this is confusing, sorry. If you preferred this, you’re welcome.

Show References

Panelist Kit Ranking Results

Support type things

  • Support our Patreon. If you’d like to throw some change in the tip jar, please do so. Thank you to those for your ears and support, it’s immensely appreciated.
  • 5-stars on iTunes and leave some feedback. It would help immensely.

Click here to listen to episode 482B

Author: Mark Hinkley

Mark is a full-time graphic designer, full-time smart ass and full-time logo, stadium and kit nerd. When he isn't writing ridiculous match reports or redesigning logos for his own amusement, he's salivating over the day that promotion and relegation occurs in MLS. You can follow him @kitnerdmark on the twitterz.

Share This Post On

1 Comment

  1. Long? Come now… their are plenty of quick podcasts with slack jawed yokels barking louder than a coyote in heat. “TFC sucks! Someone fire Manning!” Where is the depth in that? The art is in the detail.

    As for kits, I can’t see any child saving up his money for that new white TFC kit. Are new shirts that in demand that they don’t have to do much to sell overpriced shirts? Maybe they are already surrendering this new season and will wave them like a white flag. Have mercy MLS, we tremble at the might of those galloping in to meet us…

    Anyway the days are getting longer. The sun is getting brighter. The farmers are getting up early to get the soil ready for a new batch of carrots. Perhaps this season the crops will grow stronger. And a new season of soccer is almost here…

    As you step off your horse, you pull down your stetson to prevent the suns glare. Your boots disturbs the dirt of the Toronto street.

    This town had seen better days. Once it was bustling, the local mine struck gold. The old folks still talk about the good old days. They had a parade back then for those gunslingers that swept through the league.

    Those bunch seemed unstoppable. The best in the territory. Every bandit, bounty hunter, and pistolero knew this town couldn’t be messed with and they all turned yellow belly. If you were on Toronto’s most wanted list then you better skedaddle or get pumped full of lead. They hunted every desperado that dared show their face at BMO field.

    But these days it’s the Crew in Columbus that has the big guns. Toronto is a laughing stock to them. And well, the locals now think this team should be in a stockade or run out of town tarred and feathered. Others wouldn’t be so generous and yell to hang them high. If a mob had their way a lynching was sure to happen.

    These past seasons the goldmine has run out. And with this dry spell the crops were stunted, only a shriveled carrot or turnip are worth eating in these parts. Dont try to exchange pleasantries with the local fans. The locals aren’t in the mood to be gentlemanly and lady like. The only words you’ll get is a cussing.

    But some are still living high on the hog around here. Those two Italian sharpshooters were brought in to clean up this league. But they cleaned out the bank vault instead.

    Those grifters bluffed their way in. So far the only game they really knew how to play was poker. Maybe once they could shoot with style but not last season. If they aren’t shooting blanks then they will shoot their own teammates in the foot.

    Here in the east, it’s getting tougher every year. And the western conference? Well, let’s just say these Italians should stick with eating spaghetti rather than getting into a spaghetti western.

    And the mayor? Well Bill Manning was in charge but his choices seemed out of touch. He kept gambling away this town’s money while talking like a carnival barker. But I’m not buying what he’s selling. Last season they couldn’t catch any cattle rustlers, not even stop a chicken thief. Tarnation! Even the varmints are turning BMO Field into their personal whorehouse.

    It looked real bad last year. They got rid of the Marshall, he went riding away to Norway. But the new man in town today is tied up tighter then a pig ready for the butcher. What can he do? What with these rusty rifles, and revolvers that keep on jamming. It’s hard to shoot when you take the risk of your gun blowing in your face. Hopefully the few new faces know what they’re getting into.

    The only thing busy in this town was the saloon at BMO field. With all these grim scenes on the field the locals drowned their sorrows with beer, whiskey and tequila. They seemed to never run out, it flowed like water but it cost an arm and a leg.

    The showgirls danced on stage with life as the piano and banjo played. They sang to bring the spirits up. But they might of well been dancing on a grave. The fans never forgot their sorrow and the spirits risen are from a bottle.

    The two Italians walked through the saloon door. You could always smell one coming since the fumes he smoked cleared the path of all the locals. The other well he was small in stature but he had a mean streak. So you better keep your distance or you will be dancing as he plays his gun like an instrument. But as you all know, hate strangles a man’s reflexes. His anger will be his demise, focus and clean living will give you the edge in a shoot out.

    Their was a few puppies brought in. They needed time to grow, still too green for this league. So new that they forgot to take off the price tag off their oversized shirts. Maybe they got the enthusiasm for this kind of work but you got to be more than a fast shooter around here. More important is that you shoot straight.

    The new Marshall will try. He could talk, cajole or hoodwink these men but that might not be enough. I reckon you have to head to the office to find the culprit that laid the foundation of this town.

    So I headed to the Mayor’s office. He is once seen as a fine man of high standing. But these days folks have been talking… certainly not kind words.

    You meet him in his luxurious furnished office. He wears a fine pressed business attire and shiny shoes. He looks at you trying to figure out who you are…


    “Fishhead is the name. Your smarter then the folks here say. If the team wins, you sell more than the odd kit. I’ve seen the selection of merchandise at the general store. I’m impressed, but really premium prices for TFC branded cowboy boots? That not genuine red leather, but the price will turn some faces red.”

    He smirks at your remark as you continue.

    “If they lose, well the saloon sells more whiskey. With the markups I reckon you’ll make a pretty penny either way. Even water for the horses costs a fortune in these parts.”

    He smiles…as you continue.

    “You came here back in 2015, this town already had good prospects with some impressive gunslingers. You got handed a winning deck of cards. It was a gravy train for you. Speaking of trains…This town got lucky, they placed train tracks through this town back in 2007. Now every town in the territory will pay top dollar for the same. All you need to do is sit back and relax and this lands value keeps going up.”

    He looks nervous as he realizes you know the truth.

    “Riding these iron horses isn’t my style. With all that coal fueled smoke it’s messy. But it brings all these high faluting fellas from far and wide. Their are folks ready to see who will stop at this town. And they’ll pay top dollar for it. No wonder you still have a job… the people in power will keep you around until the funds run dry.”

    He responds,”Seems you figured it all out. We could use a fellow like you in management.”

    You chuckle and say, “I’m really not the fancy office people type. I think the supporters are more my kind. I think they will hold their spending after I have a little talk with them.”

    Agitated he replied, “Let’s not be so hasty! I heard about you before. Just a second, I have some pennies and a crisp Canadian dollar bill with your name on it.”

    He turns around towards a small safe opens it and whispers to himself, “I still got one card to play…”

    You can’t see that he picks up a revolver from inside the safe as it sits atop some Garber bucks.

    You fire as he turns around aiming at you. He collapses to the ground.

    “I wouldn’t bet a penny on the game you play. I never trust a man with shiny shoes. You should of bought a pair of penny loafers.”

    You know that when shoes are kept that clean than it means their hiding some dirt. That safe only had Garber bucks anyway. That will only buy a third round draft pick. What are they good for anyway? Shine shoes, I suppose. I prefer my dusty old boots.

    Another man will get his chance now. Hopefully it’s not a slack jawed yokel.

    Post a Reply

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *