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Like the swallows
returning to Capistrano, each spring new, hope arises in the hearts
of the fans of America’s pastime that this year is going to be the
year for their team.
If only we, the fans, believe hard
enough we can make the impossible possible.
What fucking bullshit.
On an unrelated tangent those
Capistranis are some lucky
motherfuckers. We
ain’t seen a swallow in the
Schrödingenland
since ’98 and that one was drunken and, I’m fairly certain,
unintentional.
Now I’m not one to be envying another
motherfucker’s situation, but I doubt
those Capistranans realize how
precious even a single swallow can be. You never know the true
value of something until it’s gone.
Allow me to confirm that I am, in fact, a
huge sports fan. Allow Mrs. Schrödinger
to confirm that I am, in fact, huge. Allow me to disabuse you of
the fallacious notion you offer above. Baseball isn’t a sport.
It’s a game.
It is the official position of this fine
establishment that there is only one sport.
Football.
Everything else is a game.
Currently the athletic department of this
fine establishment supports:
·
A drunken bocce team
·
A drunken topless girls softball team
·
A male crew team (Dean Phillips’ pet project. For
some reason, the man loves to cram into a small boat with eight
broad shouldered, sweaty, twenty year old boys and yell stroke at
the top of his lungs)
And each year hosts the prestigious
methamphetamine addict chess tournament, the Appalachian Open. The
irony of the juxtaposition of our opinions on sport and the fact
that we have no football program is not lost on me but that’s not
what you were asking.
Unfortunately, people who are into baseball,
especially those who have wed their hopes and self worth to a
shitty team, will be suffering from a very large Elizabeth Smart
effect this year due to the insufferable success of the Red Sox
last season.
The Elizabeth Smart effect:
n, idiom
– the engendering of a belief that something which is,
statistically, incredibly improbable will nonetheless happen for
you even in the face of overwhelming evidence otherwise, due to a
single well publicized anecdotal incident that contradicted the
established probability.
Usage: “I don’t care if you found my
child’s bloody clothes in that sex offender’s basement. They found
that Elizabeth Smart girl after 8 months or something. I believe
my baby is still out there alive somewhere.”
Now every Tom, Dick and dick thinks that
their team has a chance. The Pirates have been a joke since they
gutted their scouting organization after the 1993 season and will
continue to be a joke until they invest some of the six bucks for
a small, warm glass of shitty beer money they’re getting in their
farm system, and start developing enough talent so that their one
good guy doesn’t bolt as soon as his first big league contract is
up to go play for a team that isn’t shite.
Quit your fucking dreaming, pal.
Clueless Joe indeed.
P.S. I want to encourage everyone to
go out and see some games this year. You’re paying taxes for that
stadium; you might as well let them kiss you while you’re getting
fucked.
P.P.S.
Allow me to congratulate you on the well played fat joke. Huzzah,
brother, huzzah. |