Full Version: Mascot comes out
What a hilarious column , Bill Konisberg. I laffed my furry butt off. But what about Slider , the Indians mascot- he's fuschia, constantly hugging women AND MEN and dances like he's at a disco whenever they play a song. Definitely GAY!
mmm.... furry ass.... 
Anyway, years ago, the Capitals mascot used to have a habit of sitting in my lap at Caps games. Though rumor had it, a woman was under the costume.
Trevor
Anyway, years ago, the Capitals mascot used to have a habit of sitting in my lap at Caps games. Though rumor had it, a woman was under the costume.
Trevor
Excellent...and quite amazing that every person at the game that night could be seen in the photo. 
*Sigh* Bill K. is soooo cute (I met him about a month ago). Why does he have to ruin it with that stupid goatee? *Sigh*
Good job in any case, Bill.
Good job in any case, Bill.
That article IS hysterical, and yes, he is very cute!
Trevor
Trevor
Who's cute ... Bill or Youppi?
Copman:
Slider is actually not gay. He uses that whole "androgynous" thing to get women, or, to put it less politely, mascot muff.
Slider is actually not gay. He uses that whole "androgynous" thing to get women, or, to put it less politely, mascot muff.
"MASCOT MUFF"?! Can anyone tell me the best way to clean puke off a computer keyboard? 
One of good friends is the mascot for a professional sports team. Totally into men, but very closeted.
When I saw the title of this thread, I gasped because I thought it was about my friend coming out of the closet. Alas, it was not.
When I saw the title of this thread, I gasped because I thought it was about my friend coming out of the closet. Alas, it was not.
So yesterday I'm at the "Taste of Baltimore" festival which was held on the concourse level of Camden Yards. It was five bucks to get in, then you buy tickets to use at the food/drink stations set up by various restaurants, food service companies, etc. They also had a couple of stages set up, with the main attraction being singer-songwriter Duncan Sheik (I got a few nice pictures but his eyes managed to be always closed in each one... 
)
So I'm waiting for the show to begin and the mascot of the minor league Bowie Baysox is nearby. He walks towards a few girls who are standing behind me and they're all giggly and so on, so I turned back towards the stage.
A few seconds later there are a couple of fur-covered hands massaging my shoulders! I was in such a state of shock that I didn't even give him my phone number...which is probably a good thing because for all I know there might have been a woman under all that fur.
Edited to add this link of Louie from Bowie
)So I'm waiting for the show to begin and the mascot of the minor league Bowie Baysox is nearby. He walks towards a few girls who are standing behind me and they're all giggly and so on, so I turned back towards the stage.
A few seconds later there are a couple of fur-covered hands massaging my shoulders! I was in such a state of shock that I didn't even give him my phone number...which is probably a good thing because for all I know there might have been a woman under all that fur.
Edited to add this link of Louie from Bowie
For shame, Bill K.! This is obviously more of a "mascot outing" than the true "mascot coming out" we've all been praying for.
The fact that Youppi! lives in Montreal does not automatically make him gay; for as far as I know, the residents of Montreal are only 50% gay, just like everywhere else. And what Youppi! does in the privacy of his own lap-dance booth in Le Village Gai is his business. For all we know, he could be teaching those naked boys some of his patented "YMCA" dance moves, since he's always trying to make a little money on the side (weddings, parties, anything), because the mascot union does not currently have an adequate pension fund.
And besides, every self-respecting 'mo knows that outing the "more colorful" in our rainbow community has been considered pas de rigueur since Jerry Falwell outed Tinkie-Winkie.
But I digress. I'm not really angry at you, Bill K., I'm just a little frustrated. You see, what I really want to tell you, nay, what I need to tell you, is my own Youppi! story...
Our relationship began over two decades ago, when the Expos moved into the Olympic Stadium and, with great fanfare and many cool explosions, introduced me to a new kind of mascot – not exactly an animal, not quite a person, more like a...big...thing. But what a thing he was! Sure, he was a little green on the inside, but outside, he was pure, sweet orange – a kind of orange never seen before in the natural world. My knees buckled, my heart jumped and I felt a little confused. I was swept away by this strange new feeling, and forever changed. I was HIS.
Yes, I too fell for the wile charms of Le Grand Orange – that soft, luxurious, head-to-toe fur that brings envy to the bellies of American Bear centerfolds, those big, round googly eyes that you'd swear are cruising you from across an empty stadium, that strong, silent demeanor that simply screams "Je ne sais quoi! Vraiment!" He wore all the right clothes, too – the neatly tailored Expos jersey showcasing those massive guns, and that little cap, tilted just so, proudly displaying the Expos logo, an unrecognizable symbol designed years before Prince ever went all weird on us. Yes, I've spent countless nights dreaming of those huge, padded paws caressing away the disappointment of another losing season, secretly wondering if it's true what they say about mascots with size 27 feet.
I felt a special love, the kind of love a man can only feel for a seven-foot mascot. My gentle beast, he was truly the Shrek of his day. I began writing him romantic bilingual poetry all season long (often employing an ingenious "Youppi!/groupie" couplet), sending him specially dyed orange-tipped red roses, and, on his birthday (Opening Day), gift-wrapping twenty-pound crates of Schwartz's smoked meat. Oh, he didn't get that rotund figure from regular mascot fare!
But after all these years, after all that money spent on expensive tickets behind the Expos dugout just to be close enough to feel the breeze when he would shake that gorgeous massive tush, after all those day games and lonely nights,... never a word from my fuzzy dreamboat. He was eerily silent, like some modern Muddville Valentino. Not so much as a wink, never mind a scoreboard marriage proposal. I felt...used.
And now my paranoid suspicions have been confirmed, played out for the whole cable-advantaged world to see on ESPN. It seems that Major League Baseball brought this beautiful thing called Youppi! right to my doorstep, raised my hopes time after time, then pulled the bright orange rug right out from under me, quietly spiriting him away in the night like a poorly-managed sports franchise. Now, it just feels like a big, soft, spongy slap in the face.
Yes, I'll be sad to see Youppi! go, and I'll shed a few more tears. But in the end, I've come to realize that Youppi! will be happy living out his asexual mascot existence without me, and that the special love we shared (through our cycle of stalking and league-ordered restraint notices) had to someday come to an end. No longer will he hear the faint echoes of my voice wafting through the dark, hollow corridors of the Big Owe - "Youppiiiii! Youppiiii!...," and I truly wish him all the happiness in the world when he retires next year to the beaches of South Florida, to begin a new life as restauranteur-extraordinaire, dishing out haute-cuisine poutine to vacationing Quebeckers. Someday, I may even summon up the courage to pack up my speedo and flip-flops and go eat at "Youppi’s™."
No, Youppi! will never, ever be my real boyfriend. But one day the bitterness of my defeat will subside, and this big orange wound in my heart will heal. Someday, after watching him drive off into the sunset on his sleek motorized tricycle, I will somehow learn to get on with my life, comforted in the knowledge that he has made me a better man, and a better fan.
The fact that Youppi! lives in Montreal does not automatically make him gay; for as far as I know, the residents of Montreal are only 50% gay, just like everywhere else. And what Youppi! does in the privacy of his own lap-dance booth in Le Village Gai is his business. For all we know, he could be teaching those naked boys some of his patented "YMCA" dance moves, since he's always trying to make a little money on the side (weddings, parties, anything), because the mascot union does not currently have an adequate pension fund.
And besides, every self-respecting 'mo knows that outing the "more colorful" in our rainbow community has been considered pas de rigueur since Jerry Falwell outed Tinkie-Winkie.
But I digress. I'm not really angry at you, Bill K., I'm just a little frustrated. You see, what I really want to tell you, nay, what I need to tell you, is my own Youppi! story...
Our relationship began over two decades ago, when the Expos moved into the Olympic Stadium and, with great fanfare and many cool explosions, introduced me to a new kind of mascot – not exactly an animal, not quite a person, more like a...big...thing. But what a thing he was! Sure, he was a little green on the inside, but outside, he was pure, sweet orange – a kind of orange never seen before in the natural world. My knees buckled, my heart jumped and I felt a little confused. I was swept away by this strange new feeling, and forever changed. I was HIS.
Yes, I too fell for the wile charms of Le Grand Orange – that soft, luxurious, head-to-toe fur that brings envy to the bellies of American Bear centerfolds, those big, round googly eyes that you'd swear are cruising you from across an empty stadium, that strong, silent demeanor that simply screams "Je ne sais quoi! Vraiment!" He wore all the right clothes, too – the neatly tailored Expos jersey showcasing those massive guns, and that little cap, tilted just so, proudly displaying the Expos logo, an unrecognizable symbol designed years before Prince ever went all weird on us. Yes, I've spent countless nights dreaming of those huge, padded paws caressing away the disappointment of another losing season, secretly wondering if it's true what they say about mascots with size 27 feet.
I felt a special love, the kind of love a man can only feel for a seven-foot mascot. My gentle beast, he was truly the Shrek of his day. I began writing him romantic bilingual poetry all season long (often employing an ingenious "Youppi!/groupie" couplet), sending him specially dyed orange-tipped red roses, and, on his birthday (Opening Day), gift-wrapping twenty-pound crates of Schwartz's smoked meat. Oh, he didn't get that rotund figure from regular mascot fare!
But after all these years, after all that money spent on expensive tickets behind the Expos dugout just to be close enough to feel the breeze when he would shake that gorgeous massive tush, after all those day games and lonely nights,... never a word from my fuzzy dreamboat. He was eerily silent, like some modern Muddville Valentino. Not so much as a wink, never mind a scoreboard marriage proposal. I felt...used.
And now my paranoid suspicions have been confirmed, played out for the whole cable-advantaged world to see on ESPN. It seems that Major League Baseball brought this beautiful thing called Youppi! right to my doorstep, raised my hopes time after time, then pulled the bright orange rug right out from under me, quietly spiriting him away in the night like a poorly-managed sports franchise. Now, it just feels like a big, soft, spongy slap in the face.
Yes, I'll be sad to see Youppi! go, and I'll shed a few more tears. But in the end, I've come to realize that Youppi! will be happy living out his asexual mascot existence without me, and that the special love we shared (through our cycle of stalking and league-ordered restraint notices) had to someday come to an end. No longer will he hear the faint echoes of my voice wafting through the dark, hollow corridors of the Big Owe - "Youppiiiii! Youppiiii!...," and I truly wish him all the happiness in the world when he retires next year to the beaches of South Florida, to begin a new life as restauranteur-extraordinaire, dishing out haute-cuisine poutine to vacationing Quebeckers. Someday, I may even summon up the courage to pack up my speedo and flip-flops and go eat at "Youppi’s™."
No, Youppi! will never, ever be my real boyfriend. But one day the bitterness of my defeat will subside, and this big orange wound in my heart will heal. Someday, after watching him drive off into the sunset on his sleek motorized tricycle, I will somehow learn to get on with my life, comforted in the knowledge that he has made me a better man, and a better fan.
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