Once a year, I become unconditionally proud of my countrymen and forget politics, gender, race, creed, and my fiery hatred of the rat bastard fascists in the Republican Party. Once a year, James Earl Jones’s speech from Field of Dreams plays over and over in my head for 24 straight hours, as if he were God’s own PR director issuing a statement of hope, flowers, joy, happiness, unicorns, laughter, and puppies. You know the day. You know the feeling. You know the smell of spring and the promise of a new season… You know that it is motherfuckin’ MLB Opening Day!
Baseball is an American pastime, like French-hating and morbid obesity. Baseball is a game that is determined by inches, like my divorce. Baseball aficionados have an unhealthy relationship with statistics; similar to overbearing statistician fathers who tells you to help with his thesis when you’re twelve and know nothing about chi-square regressions so he calls you a goddamn retard and beats you with an abacus. Baseball has more emotional ups and downs than a bipolar woman watching One Tree Hill while on her period. Baseball is a metaphor for sexual activity, much like overbearing statistician fathers who… 3rd base… ice cream scoop… but daddy… (insert traumatic memory flashback and tongue-biting fit). Baseball has more team spirit than a Waco cult. Baseball has more delicious nachos than a Mexican brothel (not to mention more Mexicans than a groundscrew… and that’s not including the MLB groundscrew… which also has a lot of Mexicans.).
I FUCKING LOVE BASEBALL! GO TRIBE!!
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April 1st, 2008 at 12:38 am
my favorite part of yours is
When it comes to things people do on the weekends, line dancing is only better than circle-jerking because there’s a definitive beginning and end.