The Quakes: An Opening Salvo

So people ask me all the time, “Hey Bads85, how come you are 66er season ticket holder instead of a Quakes’ season ticket holder? You abhor the Angels; why do you follow their farm team? My response never varies:

Me: Excuse me, do I know you?

Them: Blah. Blah. Blah.

Me: Well, you see, I am not about chasing the laundry. I am about hometown roots.

Them: San Bernardino is a shithole that you left a long time ago. Rancho Cucamonga is a vibrant town with a distinct history —

Me: Excuse me. Rancho is a giant Cheesecake Factory. Its history was forsaken for outdoor shopping and restaurant chains. Besides, have you seen the Quakes’ promotional schedule? It sucks. Massage Envy Fireworks Night? The hell with that noise. I guarantee you there are no happy endings at that place. In Berdoo, a massage ends with a tug.

Them: That is disgusting.

Me: It’s real though, man – not some string of department store façades like you find in Rancho these days. Rancho even has a Toby Keith bar. Seriously, downtown is a mall built ten years ago, and they call it a lifestyle center these days.

Them: But Rancho has a Mr. Hat, the greatest hamburger stand left.

Me: And that is the only reason that God has not unleashed hellfire from the skies on Rancho. Meanwhile, the Quakes have Crazy J, a bitter young man who is realizing that his career in sports management has stalled. All the good stadium entertainers move up the ranks, but not Crazy J – he is stuck in Rancho, looking all like Nick Swisher. It is just a matter of time before that dude snaps and stabs a bunch of little kids with popsicle sticks he sharpened with his own teeth. Somebody should put him down. I could go for a pastrami burger right now at Mr. Hat’s though.

If You See This Sicko, Shoot Him Before He Harms The Children.

If You See This Sicko, Shoot Him Before He Harms The Children.

Them: Crazy J gets the crowd rockin’!

Me: Bullshit! The city’s noise ordinance won’t allow it. Besides, the fans don’t want to spill their herbal tea, so they sit on their hands. The only time the crowd makes more noise than a funeral parlor is when the dinosaur mascot lets loose with a wet fart, then all the Orange County wannabees  let loose with a collective groan because they are afraid dinosaur poo is going to get on their khakis. Not only do those people have no souls, but they drive Mazdas and act like their cars are Mercedes.

Them: Look at all the losers that go to San Manuel Stadium!

Me: Those aren’t losers. Those are characters!

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