Freaks
Fanatics
The first thing to really steam me up
"It's a bad obsession, it's always messin', it's always messin'
my mind."
It disgusts me on a high level that this group of people ever developed.
First, I don’t want to be a revolutionary, and suggest that we do away
with our county’s somewhat beloved national past time. I mean, I enjoy a
good baseball game. I can see the joy in going out to the old park,
flopping down in a plastic seat on a Sunday afternoon, sucking down an
over priced foot long, slurping on a cold beer or six. The roar of the
crowd, the shout of the vendors, the semi-present thoughts that, "Hey, I
could see this a hell of a lot better on television" can be exhilarating.
And six hours later, when it’s all over, and I’m sun burned, broke, and a
little bit tipsy, most of the time, I can still say I had a good time.
But not all of the time, and I attribute this to the baseball fanatics.
You know who I’m talking about. The fat greasy guy sitting behind you in
a dirty team jersey, slamming down the peanuts and soda, keeping score on
his own. The one who argues with every call against his team, as if the
umpire can hear him. The one who let’s lose string of obscenities when
something goes wrong, that would give Kevin Smith and Quentin Tarantino a
heart attack. The one who is screaming so much, that you know he’s not
going to be able to talk to his wife or kids for a week, and you know just
as well they are probably thanking their gods for that blessing.
I admit, sometimes, I need these guys. You know, some no name will be
pinch hitting, or some obscure call will be made, and I will ask what that
means. Or more often, I’ll be drifting off, thinking of something else,
checking out the girls sitting around me, or reading the advertisements,
and I’ll miss a big play, so I will be forced to ask one what happened,
because we all know they never take their eyes off the game. They spend
months training their bladders to hold it for nine innings.
Of course, this small benefit they can provide, is never worth it, because
I’m sure, I could find at least one normal person who can answer my
questions, they just won’t stand out at much, which would mean more work
on my part. When I am forced to turn to the baseball fanatic, inevitably,
everything goes down hill. They make the asinine error of mistaking me
for someone who gives a damn. First you get the answer to your question,
say a players name. Then there is silence, but after a few seconds, they
feel as if you bonded. Next thing you know, you are being hit with his
life story. What team he came from, his numbers on the year, the guy’s
personal opinion of him, how many children he has, the big play he made
back in ’83.
Who gives a fuck?
If I wanted to know all this crap, I would have asked. Better yet, I
would have done the research myself, and become a pathetic excuse for a
human being, like yourself. I don’t want to know how many times the guy
walked in the ’92 preseason, and I think it’s pretty pathetic that you
know to start with. You need to find something else to do rather than sit
on the damn couch all day, watching ESPN, eating cold pizza, drinking warm
Yoo-hoo, memorizing the stats. Those who can’t do, watch, and that’s
there prerogative, but, please, do it in the privacy of your own home,
behind locked doors, where no one else can see your dirty habit. It’s
disgusting, like a foot fetish, or a rash, so please, keep it to yourself.
If we wanted to know, or do, we would become sick, sleazy baseball
perverts like you.
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