Extra inning loss for the 66ers last night—this is going to be a very long season as the team is devoid of prospects. Plus, I ended up at Applebee’s, which is never good. The wife went to the grocery store before seven—- her being up that early means I am in the dog house. I suppose she’s right—- I am too old to flash my bare ass at people at baseball games, but CIRCUMSTANCES SPIRALED.
A few things need to be prefaced before I begin. First of all, if Time Warner weren’t such a bunch of greedy cocksuckers, we would have probably never left the confines of my bar; we’d would have stated home to watch the Dodgers. Secondly, the bad blood between the Righteous Stoics and myself goes back to the Great Beer Batter Night in 1999 (a story to be visited later). Thirdly, and most importantly, I have a raging case of jock itch.
This is one of those stories when the climax happens almost immediately, but the after effects linger for a while, if not ever. It was Super Hero Night at San Manuel Stadium, which sounds a lot cooler than it really was. Certain 66er employers were in costume, as well as some dorky fans who look for any excuse to celebrate Halloween. Whiskey Jack and a couple other buddies were enjoying a Hangar 24 Orange Wheat (well, not WJ because he is boycotting Hangar) in the beer gardens down the third base side when the Righteous Stoics walked by in full force.
“I am surprised you aren’t in costume, Mr. Exuberant,” sneered their leader, King Jackass.
“But I am!” I replied. I Captain Red Nuts! Hear Me Roar.” And with that, I yanked my bottle of Lotrimin out of my pocket, turned may ass towards the Righteous Brigade, dropped my drawers, and sprayed to cool, cool relief on my nutsack. Hasty, perhaps, But I was damn sure that I was going to set the tone for the season with these guys.
To their credit, the Righteous Stoics did not overreact initially. Later, well, that is open for interpretation.
Dead Religions 