posted on October 18, 2012 08:00
October baseball is back in St. Louis and the Cardinals are a serious contender to once again be playing in the World Series. We have it good here in The Lou, times are rockin’ and the city is a jumpin’. But, as usual, all is not well in my world. I could find the olive buried in a vagina sandwich. Give me something good and my half-empty glass will find the bad in it. And you know what the bad side of playoff baseball is?
No, it’s not the late start times for West Coast games, the endless coverage of some pussy in pinstripes breaking his fucking ankle or over the top analyzing of a hard nose slide to break up a double play in a tight playoff series.
Yes, that shit is as irritating as some lard-ass CNN moderator pandering to her obvious bias in a televised debate, but THE most annoying thing about playoff baseball is the bullshit fact that the likelihood of scoring tickets to a game is inversely proportional to the amount of shit you actually gave about the team the rest of the season. You all know what I’m talking about it and you all see it at your offices, schools and on facebook daily.
A suit near the top of the office food chain who still thinks Ryan Ludwick is playing the outfield and Colby Rasmus is nursing from the teat of his daddy back in the video room of the clubhouse – yep, they’re going to the game.
The salesman, who neglected his duties most of the season unless a “high profile” team or player was coming to town – yep, kept these tickets for himself…but will surely write a customer’s name on the dinner and beer receipts.
The pig who’s usually married to the sofa, wives and girlfriends who constantly harp on their men for watching the game and the loudmouth bitch who rants about the price of cigarettes and won’t pay $10-for her child’s field trip – going, going and FUCKING going!!
You can take this shit to the proverbial bank. If you think a “pickoff” is some sort of booger harvesting competition in Southwestern Kentucky and wouldn’t know an “infield fly” if it dropped between you and Matt Holliday in short leftfield, you can bet Vaughn’s sweet ass that you’re sitting next to somebody, likely in a luxury box, asking if that was the 3rd or 4th out.
Women all over this fine city realized only last October that David Freeze had been on the team for more than 3-weeks. Strikeout against the Astros in mid-July – who the fuck are you? Tie an elimination game with 2-outs and 2-strikes in the ninth to go on and win it for your team in the 11th? Well you, fine sir, are suddenly “2-Ryan’s” hot and may follow the orange cones and man with the flashlight in the florescent vest directly into MY “landing strip”. Women are so shallow…
I literally saw the same old hag sleeping in the stands TWO nights in a row on TV last year in the World Series, and don’t get me going on these cell-phone dickweeds and their wave at the camera bullshit. Quit snapping pictures, texting your friends to “look at the television” or updating everybody on facebook with the goddamned score and watch the fucking game you’ve somehow, likely because Jesus hates me, been able to land tickets to.
Your field pictures and score updates are far more “look the fuck at me” than “keeping you informed” and you all know it as well as I do. Yep, that group of guys who lumbered up 135-stairs to the last row of Busch Stadium for 50+ home games, sitting through blowouts in shitty conditions, got to watch from some bar tonight and see empty seats in prime territory because some precious asshole was going to make sure the weather would pass before going inside or tore the fuck out of there once the rain delay hit.
Paint your faces, buy a brand new jersey and study the internets to get an idea of the current roster. And if the team should unfortunately fall in the World Series or before, your mood and emotion will barely take a hit. You’ll be back to scarfing popcorn on the couch, sipping coffee at your corner office or gabbing should-be private information on a loud-ass, personal phone call for everyone within 7-cubicles to hear as if it never happened.
If the team wins it all again, however, you’ll take vacation (or likely sick time), drop $172-at Target on brand new red and white gear for the entire family and somehow make the front row of the parade route and the same designation for the ceremony in the stadium. You’ll scream “we’re #1” at the top of your fucking lungs and throw your soiled panties at the MVP, glancing at your footnotes to remember who it actually was. And, if I somehow score a ducat to a game, my hypocritical ass will be right next to you, high-fiving, hugging and peppering the shit out of facebook and Twitter with veiled “in your face” jabs.
Thanks for the inspiration L.S. (wink emoticon)…KMFP-out!
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