I have no fucking idea what context it was in, but I shit you not, I was just riding my bike through Trinity Bellwoods and as I passed a couple on a park bench the one little snippet of conversation I heard was this:
“Being the brother of Kevin Elster is… hell.”
What the fucking fuck? Even if it is true, why even bring it up? Was this asshole trying to impress his ladyfriend with both his sensitivity to sibling rivalries and his knowledge of mediocre early 90s baseball players? Because that hardly ever works. But I swear to fucking God this is what I heard.
And, I mean, of course being the brother of Kevin Elster is hell. Look at him! He’s got the world by the tits right there: no frills hair cut, perfect lip for a diddler stache, knows how to wear a hat. What more could you ask for really? And how could his brother– who I assure you is most certainly not a Topps Future Star– measure up?
Fact is, he can’t.
Of course, I don’t know if it was Kevin Elster’s brother there in the park, if there’s another Kevin Elster, if it was actually Kevin Elster referring to himself in the third person (crossing my fingers for that one!) or if Kevin Elster even has a brother. But for fucking real, that’s what I heard.
I mean, OK… I’m drunk, and I’m often thinking about baseball, and… yes, I was riding past on a bike… but I am one-hundred per cent deadly fucking serious about this.