Category Archives: IE 66ers

The Inland Empire 66ers’ 2016 Promotion Schedule.

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.

Game Notes from last night:

Mike Trout Bobblehead Night – only 1500 bobble heads are being distributed, so the line is around the stadium. First really big crowd of the season. Season ticket holders are allowed in early to secure bobblehead and get food before the concession lines grow. Membership has it privileges.

Whiskey Jack made it official and bought season tickets tonight. The Beer Rebellion has begun.

Ran into the GM before the game. He still seems a little bent from the Lotrimin incident last week. Look, Dude, just because I said I would have your job one day once the reality show took off doesn’t mean I will have it TONIGHT. We can still be friends, and I will let you come to the new Redlands stadium. You will have to buy your own ticket though.

The masses are rolling in, meaning the regular gates must now be open. Hey Peasants! I am on my second beer.

66er players are presenting the Fan Code of Conduct on the big screen – they are all wearing ridiculous animal hats. If they refuse to take the Code of Conduct seriously, how can I be expected to follow THE RULES?

Season ticket holder next to me is also Lake Elsinore Storm season ticket holder – he is in his mid 50’s and brought a glove. Unless he is getting in the game, we are going to have problems.

Best thing about our seats in the waitress comes to us, which skirts the California state law forbidding beer vendors selling to people in seats. Take that, Mr. Law Dog!

God, what a mix of fans in this section this year. Bikers, Bible thumpers, hot rodders, senior citizens, scouts, tattoo worshippers, fat people, skinny people, pretty people, lots of ugly people, Jews, Christians, Muslims, atheists, and even black people. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like there are any Irish here.

This is a perfect night for baseball. When the weather is this splendid, dark thoughts begin creeping into my head – dark thought like chasing Bernie with an axe. The Bug will be avenged!

The Bankruptcy Series continues. Stockton versus Berdoo.

GLORY! Diving play by the 66er SS. His name doesn’t matter because GLORY will be fleeting with his kid.

Almost a sellout tonight. Lots of First Timers — people attending their first game of the season.

The 66ers honor veterans by playing Sammy Hagar while the veteran stands on the dugout. That is torture. WAR CRIMES.

Beer Batter is up. 0-2 count. Foul out to catcher. The fans groan. Nice to know where everyone’s loyalties are. Cheap beer!

Home Run. Ports. CARNAGE. Shania Twain “You Don’t Impress Me Much” comes on. Fuck Canada. Fuck Mutt Lange.

Off day pitchers charting pitches on tablets. This is the 21st Century, Baby.

Aaron Shipman is batting. Celine Dion’s Titanic comes over the PA. God, I love these people.

Bobby Crocker is up and they play… CAKE! We are subliminal here.

Injury delay… “Kasmir” is on.

The beer is flowing in this section now. FLOWING.

Jack wants me to get a Maple Leaf tattoo. I am not sure why.

The 66er Dance Girls are whipping the crowd into a frenzy with “YMCA”. Those saucy wenches.

Sound The Horn!

66er gets hurt — the organist plays “Iron Man.” That is right – the 66er have a DJ and an organist because that is the way they roll. I still don’t have wi-fi access though. Fuckers.

Abel Baker, a Repeat Offender, is up. He is batting .053. CARNAGE, as in new profession soon.

Beer batter is up again! Doesn’t strike out (again). The anger from the crowd is something one can touch. If only there were a word for that – like PALPABLE.

Sports Watch contest was obviously fixed tonight (one side of the stadium tries to outshout the other). Who slept with Bernie?

A hot rodder just told me to cruise or die. Okay, then. Life is a dichotomy.

The Sappington Stare Down. Fucking Awesome. Better than Cake or Pie. No wonder they gave this guy a bobblehead night. Mark Joseph Sappington is a AA pitcher that was here last year. He has the bro personality of a Nick Swisher or Brett Lawrie, but Sappington somehow pulls it off as cool. Anyway, even though that hyper fucker is pitching in Arkansas this season, he has a hysterical ad on the big screen about his big night. After the ad, his video persona has a stare down with a contestant on the dugout with hilarious results. I hope this is a THING this season

The Dance Girls are sultry now. SULTRY. This is a family environment, not a strip club, girls. My son is at an impressionable age! So I am for that matter.

Josh, the dude in charge of season ticket sales, is running around in an full orange body suit. I guess he has watched [em]The Watchmen[/em] too may times and thinks he is Rorschach. Now there is a female one in blue. I am pretty sure she has had breast augmentation. They are doing something on opposite dugouts to promote a Rally Inning. I have had too much beer to figure out this lunacy. The rally doesn’t happen. Josh and Blue Spandex have failed. 66ers lose. Time to go shoplift at the team store.

Expanded beer gardens — things are getting serious this year.

Winter has been hard for The Faithful – -their feet are reaching for the grave. This looks to be Body Count season — every game will be a count to see if they’ve lost anybody. One sees me, gets the groups’ attention, and in unison, they glare at me. God, I have missed these people.

Bring back The Bug! I scream as Bernie makes his first appearance. An old woman in the Jello Brigade shoots me the finger (the Jello Brigade is a group of senior citizens that sit together and ll have missing or rotten teeth). God, I have missed these people.

There is a 350 lb white man wearing a Homestead Greys jersey. I will never understand jersey culture.

A tweaker from the High Desert just walked by with a hitch in his step. Red Ribbon Week didn’t take with this guy.

My wife is busting my balls ever so slightly for bring Whiskey Jack to the game, Scorpion, Frog, Sweetie.

The new 66ers jersey are tits. Phoebe Cates in Fast Times type tits.

Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel The Noize” starts the game.

Jabari Henry leads off for the Mavericks – he has 2 HRs already, but is only batting .156. ISOLATED POWER. Leadoff walk.

The ushers wear blue instead of red this year. The Crypts are happy; the Bloods are pissed.

Pathetic Opening Night crowd. Whiskey Jack estimates less than a thousand people here. Times are a tough in Berdoo, I believe WJ I incorrect though – there are at least 2500 people here; WJ has been drinking al lday.

New graphics on the Jumbotron are just amazing . The 66ers have the best scoreboard in the minors.

Sherman Johnson, last night’s hero, opens the bottom of the first with a hit. And promptly is thrown out trying to steal.

Whiskey Jack tells Mr. Grumpy to dive for a foul ball. Mr. Grumpy, a senior citizen (a theme is developing here), mumbles incoherently about trajectory, then shoots Jack the bird. God, I have missed these people.

Lights just went off. This better not affect beer sales.

Billy Idol during the delay. It’s a nice day to start again.

Power is back on — everyone is doing the Carleton. God, I have missed these people.

Wrecking Ball! Is Miley pregnant or not? Who is the father?

Running of the Cows — adult in cow suits, racing. Moo and Brew Steakhouse, a place with delusions of grandeur. It used to be the Rotten Oak, a great dive bar, then they tried to make it respectable, but all hey did was pave paradise and put up a parking lot.

Barefoot Refresh – Wine on Ice! What an exciting time we live in!

OmniTrans! Why walk when you can ride – for $1.35 you can go all the way to Chino!

Sound the Horn! Sound that beautiful Horn!

Homestead Grey is my new homie, but he might eat himself to death by the end of the game.

Mrs. Bads purchases the Belgian Waffle!

BULLSHIT! The fifth inning fly by had not image of a jet! Just the Hangar 24 logo. HORSESHIT! Audio doesn’t cut it, you rat bastards! You fuckers just lost your exclusive beer sponsorship of my book.

6th inning perhaps the greatest minor league promotion/contest called “Cake or Pie”, sponsored by a local bakery. The gist is this—parent and kid get on dugout, 66er promo dude pimps the bakery, then gives the kids a choice of cake or pie. If he chooses pie, he gets to smash his parent with the pie. If he chooses cake, the 66er staff ambushes the parent with the pie. Guess who get to play? My son smashes a whipped cream pie into my face while we are on the third base dugout because I take the whipped cream from my face and rub it in his hair that is the way we roll in my family.

I just realized I have been drinking my dinner tonight. Fun for all! Time to find a bacon wrapped hot dog or two. Or six.

The 66ers acknowledge my wedding anniversary on the Jumbotron. So you have been getting my emails, but are just telling me your email is down because you cannot accommodate my outrageous requests. Any more duplicity, and I will switch my allegiances to the Quakes. Wait, they have Crazy J. Fuck that guy. But thanks for putting the anniversary thing up on the Jumbotron. Maybe Mrs. Bads will want to come back tomorrow night for Super Hero Night.

It is still 86 degrees outside. What I would give for a snow squall right now. The rotting flesh in Berdoo is going to be rank tomorrow. Tempers could flare; the city might burn – not a good setting for the 66ers home opener tomorrow. What is worse is the 66ers could be riding a six game losing streak into that game, meaning all good will from the Cal League will be Gone, Daddy, Gone. The Locals are likely to rend limbs from the new players to satisfy their need for flesh.

Perhaps the best thing that could happen to the Locals is a sustained fire in San Bernardino – a glorious blaze from which the firefighters just walk away, leaving Berdoo to the mercy of the winds and heat. After all, there isn’t a great deal of talent on the current group of 66ers – the core of this team sucked in Burlington last year. Throw in some Repeat Offenders (a player who is not good enough to advance after a season) from the 66ers last year, and you have a recipe for misery. A terrible fire could spare the Locals from the upcoming anguish and perhaps purge the city from blight.

In Berdoo with enough brain cells to possess long term memory like to look to the glory years of the past and dream of a return to splendor – the Cleveland of the West! Like Cleveland, those glory years are a myth – when the city was vibrant the air was green from the Los Angeles smog trapped by the mountains. When steel and rail are your muscle, the acrid smell of doom greets you every morning when you awake. Smelt could even be found in the orange groves back then – if you slept with your window open on a chilly night, you’d awake with oily ash on your cheeks. The Good Old Days indeed.

San Bernardino has spent so much time looking back that it forgot how to get ahead. Somewhere not that long ago, existing replaced living. This really isn’t a story about Old Berdoo though – the city is just a backdrop. The 66ers don’t instill civic pride in a rapidly dying city; many of their fans come from surrounding communities who kiss their kids on the forehead at night, and thank the stars above they don’t live there.

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.

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!

The View From My Seat

Some days, when the sun hits the smog just right, San Bernardino looks like the burgh in My Chemical Romance’s “Welcome to The Black Parade “ video –with the Broken, Beaten, and the Damned looking to spend their EBT cards. Today isn’t one of those days as the skies are blue for the Inland Empire 66ers Season Ticket Holder Breakfast at San Manuel Stadium in San Bernardino, California this morning — season ticket holders show up, obtain their tickets, buy stuff at the team shop, check out their seat locations, and shoot the shit with other fans. No one but the employees speak to me because I am HIM.

I don’t run in these people social circles, which is fine by me. These people drive in a different lane on the freeways as me, and I don’t have a problem with that. It was not always thus, but this isn’t a time or place for forgiveness — this is a city in its death clutches, writhing like a hobo who decided to end it by humping the third rail. There is no saving the hobo, but he ain’t dead yet, and right now the electricity is FLOWING through that substance ridden body, making it do the Herky Jerky until the heart mercifully stop beating.

First person I encounter today is Sergeant First Class of the Wheelchair Brigade. I would bet the 66ers lead professional baseball in season ticket holders in wheel chairs because when the bullets start flying in Berdoo, they often hit spinal cords. I don’t know if SFC was shot, or he was in some sort of industrial accident, but he has been coming to the games for years, and he talks a rather mean game. This morning, he is charming the team store cashiers with a story from his days of distributing vengeance. The cashier girls are eating up SFC’s story –– whether out of politeness or the fascination of batshit crazy, I am not sure.

SFC: I hate the Quakes.

Cashier #1: You know, we are having a promotion where we are giving away Quakes’ toilet paper.

SFC: I wouldn’t even wipe my ass with that. I had to slash the owner’s car a few years ago.

Cashier #2: You slashed the tires of the Quakes owner’s car?

SFC: Yep. With my knife. That dude wronged me.

Cashier #1 (laughing nervously) What did he do?

SFC: He had me tossed from my handicapped seat.

Cashier #2: Why?

SFC: Because I wasn’t a season ticket holder.

Me (to the cashiers): Excuse me, do you have any shot glasses?

Cashier#2: I am sorry. No.

Me: That needs to be rectified immediately. Who can I talk to about that? (nods at SFC). How’s it going?

SFC: (silent glare as I amble off to talk to those in charge about shot glasses)

I don’t doubt that SFC slashed a tire over there, but I doubt it was the owner’s – SFC was probably tossed from the game, then just looked for a nice car in the parking lot and WENT TO WORK.

There is not a great deal of beautiful people here today at the ballpark (another reason why I am ostracized) because meth sucks the beauty of people real quick.  A normal looking family finds their seats a couple of sections from us – they must be from a neighboring community as the 66ers draw from population centers another than Old Berdoo, Newbies.

After the ballpark, we will be off to the Railroad Museum at the Santa Fe Depot. Once upon a time, San Bernardino won the rail wars with the local towns, and the locomotive gods awarded great prosperity. Governor “Old Honesty” Waterman and Sheriff  Burkhart stared down Virgil Earp and his railroad goons in Colton, the good old Fred T. Perris found a route to build railroad tracks through the Cajon Pass, and that became Berdoo’s trump card in the Transcontinental Railroad struggles.

This history reverberates with the 66ers — every time the local nine scores a run, a railroad whistle blows. “Sound The Horn” is plastered throughout the stadium and has become the rallying cry of the fans. Santa Fe pulled out of San Bernardino a long time ago though, leaving behind an enormous smokestack and museum that is often overrun with model train enthusiasts, who are truly sick fucks more co-dependent on oral tradition than even baseball fans.

Irony alert – Madman Ricky Lee Fowler , a convicted sodomizer, would start one of the most destructive wildfires in San Bernardino history in Waterman Canyon. Fowler, who was reportedly bombed out of his skull, had demanded meth money from a relative, and lit a fire near the relative’s house in retaliation for being denied. This fire was the last straw for many of the city’s wealthy, who abandoned Berdoo, setting the stage for RAPID URBAN DECAY.

I have a few game summaries that I never posted her from the 66er playoff run last year. This was the last home game against the San Jose Giants:

Huge crowd tonight – last game here at San Manuel no matter what. Even the lawn is full. I am so pumped that I brought my cleats in case The Skipper needs me.

I smell tires burning. Or perhaps it human flesh. I believe The Faithful is making a sacrifice.

This isn’t your idyllic minor league crowd – these animals are smelling blood. They realize what is at stake, a Cal League Championship, which will undoubtedly return this dying city to splendor.  Rapid urban decay will be replaced by prosperity, and the Welfare Warlords who run this town will be driven into the desert. Even the little kids are carrying side arms tonight.

No hits after one inning for either team.  I really hope The Faithful didn’t half ass their sacrifice, or I am going to grab the kid working the deep fryer and light him on fire once it gets completely dark , and people will be able to see the flames from the grease fire for miles.

Throat Punch brought a bottle of rum into the park, so I am drinking brown booze for dinner. I wonder if she has any cocaine. If Mrs. Bads and I were younger, we would be doing rails off Throat Punch’s ass .

Why is she called Throat Punch? Long story, one that time does not permit to tell now.

Crowd is tense. San Jose has runners on first and second, with one out. The kid in front of me looks like he is going to knife his aunt, which would leave a stain on the concrete. Boom! The 66ers catcher throws behind the runner on first to pick him off, then a can of corn to end the inning. The kid visibly relaxes, and the aunt is spared …. for now.

The charge trumpet sounds, and someone shouts, “Custer died! Sound The Horn!” These are my people. Fuck the exurbs; this is my home.

Throat Punch just made snide remark about my socialist tendencies because I am bitching about Corporate America taking over the Beer Batter Promotion. That’s the second time today someone has made that type of remark.  I need to work on my image.

This game is going too fast. The Deep Fryer Kid is in the waning minutes of his life unless the 66ers start a rally.

Woody Woodpecker is on the Big Screen. People are booing for reasons unknown. I hope they throw trash on the field, and I like Woody Woodpecker.

Andy Workman, I am going to find the tire store you will be working at next year, and shit on your counter.Sherman Johnson gets a hit, meaning the Deep Fryer Kid has a few more minutes let in his life.

The 66er’s bullpen have chewed sucker sticks in the holes of their caps – some sort of fucked up Alvaro Espinoza type rally cap. They look ridiculous. However, it works, they are geniuses.

The city of San Bernardino appears to have assigned a shitload of firefighters to this game (or these guys just got tired of watching porn). It’s a good thing because things are going to hell really quick. Twenty-minute wait for beer, which is just UNACCEPTABLE. People are going to riot, plus the 66ers are down 1-0 now, meaning the Deep Fryer Kid is back on borrowed time.

A really hot young Latina just spilled nachos on her enormous breasts and is now making her boyfriend lick up the mess. Now that is a Rally Monkey. Just like that, the 66ers have runners on first and second. Sound that motherfucking horn and spill some more cheese! 1-1. Hat tip to the lads in the bullpen.

Bases loaded for Andy Workman. He yanks a homer two feet foul, then K’s. Sherman Williams, Assbite. Familiarize yourself with Feces Brown because I am coming for you.

Sound the Horn! The backup catcher walks, chasing San Jose’s starting pitcher from the game. Deep Fryer Kid is saved… for now

Fifth Inning Flyby – will the beer gardens survive?

The Strikeout Batter whiffs, so someone is getting Red Robin instead of everyone else getting cheap beer.

Sound the Horn! Andy Workman with the two run jack. Yes, that Andy Workman might have just become the Ed Sprague of the California League.

Seventh inning stretch. The crowd is happy drunk with a 4-1 lead. Things can still go bad in the eighth though.

Sound the Horn! 5-1. And now it is a laugher as all tension drains away in the stands. 8-1. 9-1, who cares? No one has to die tonight. The Deep Fryer Kid might live long enough to lose his virginity once the acne clears up.

Cake or Pie! Where has this promo been all year? A kid gets to pick what desert he is going to smash in his parent’s face. You unveil this in the last half inning of the season?

Now we are celebrating. The Faithful are hugging each other. Nacho Tits is kissing her girlfriend as her boyfriend rubs her ass. I high five Andy Workman and wonder if I should drive to San Jose in the morning, or catch a ride with the front office because I AM LOVED. Then I remember there is football on Sunday, and all the boozers from the fantasy leagues will be over. I might need Deep Fryer kid at my place on Sunday.