Posts tagged bored

was only about five or six, and had he been alone I would have forgiven him. No harm no foul, go your ways, it’s all good. Only, there had to be at least three other kids sitting in the lobby waiting with their parents for their food respectfully. So clearly it could be done. This child however was running around with a pink rubber ball and bouncing it haphazardly. The ball would careen of a wall and go rolling over here and his drunken baby deer gait would follow. Then he’d grasp the ball and heave it with all the grace of Michael J. Fox, watch it bounce and follow it again. Part of me recalled the days of playing with nondescript rubber balls and entertaining myself. A much larger part of me, jaded by the years (albeit few), was slowly losing my shit. Generally this is the part where I defend myself by saying how busy it was, and how I’d been having a shitty tip night, but honestly I just wanted more than anything for the earth to open and swallow this giggling child whole. And at that exact moment, as if God or the universe or what have you heard my innermost cry, the ball rolled slowly to my feet. Here, yet another opportunity arises for me to escape condemnation by claiming that my actions were purely instinctual. Alas, as I watched that child race toward me, head tilted forward in the falling run that is the province of children, time slowed down. I could see the happiness in his eyes, and the ball beckoned. I waited. Three steps. Two steps. One. Then I kicked the ball clear across the room.

For a moment the boy was dumbfounded. Then he looked at me, and perhaps he saw reflected in my eyes the same unrestrained glee that marks the visage of us all when still young and unabashedly cruel. He hated me then, maybe even a little bit more than I hated him. In that instant was laid bare a battle that had been waged for centuries betwixt simpering children seeking attention by being disruptive and the adults that dream of drowning them. It was his move, and he knew it. His eyes contorted and his lip trembled, as the boy drew his trump card. The little bitch was going to cry.

Soooo I ran into the back and waited for his dad to get their food and leave.

You win this round.

 (besides the obvious reasons)

There’s the pace of the game (which is slow). There’s the sitting outside in the sun. There’s the possibility that you could be violently struck with a speeding projectile reducing your promising future (I’m sure) to a career singing Christian songs with the other vegetables. There are the endless pauses. There are the endless crowds. There’s the chance, however small, that the game could end with a score of 1-0 which automatically puts the sport slightly above soccer but below hockey (at least hockey has fights). The sport is antiquated, relying on fallible umpires to make decisions. The players get paid millions, and spend the majority of the time sitting in the dugout. There are hundreds of fucking games, literally HUNDREDS. More than anything though, the players use steroids and nobody really gives a shit.

Don’t misunderstand. I don’t care about steroids. In fact, I love them. They take a boring tired “sport” and make it slightly less boring. Anyone asks, I’m pro steroids (Chris Benoit was definitely an anomaly). What bugs me is that Baseball claims to care. Stopping steroid use totally goes against their bottom line. No one has ever stopped watching baseball because the pitchers pitched faster, or because there are now more homeruns. No one checks the latest urine test before they purchase a jersey or whatever those shirt-like uniforms are called. People pay money to see runs and catch foul balls, not to get sunburns while watching defense.

For some reason though, the baseball gods are desperate to get us to buy into their disapproval of steroid. Well I’m not buying. Probably because I could care less about the sport as a whole, but maybe partially because as I see it there are loads of ways to cut down on it. So here are a couple of things, I thought of today, while driving in shitty Texas traffic.

1.       Melky Cabrera is a douchebag.  It bugged me that over and over again I had to listen to whoeverthefuck on the radio admonish him for steroid use, and even worse apparently, his attempts to cover it up. WHO CARES. Kick him out of baseball. There you’re done.

2.       The difficulty with stopping steroid use is that it goes against most athletes bottom line. They want that cheddar, that moolah, that cash. Heightened performance equals larger contracts.

a.       It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the answer is to put penalties in contracts that severely decrease the overall paychecks of any player found using performance enhancing drugs. I’m talking 60% first offence. Bam. Done. Random mandatory testing and you’re good. Point me.

b.      But what if the athlete’s don’t sign? WHO GIVES A FUCK!! They don’t sign, they don’t play baseball. There are enough players out there who want to make an easy MILLION DOLLARS that eventually people will sign. So make a fucking decision. Either you want sports absent steroids or you don’t care.

3.       For some athlete’s it’s about the win or the numbers or the HOF. I think given the above conclusion that it makes equal sense to drug test after the World Series. Athletes who have partaken of the forbidden fruit have their championships stripped from them. And all stats for that sports year are stricken from the record in regards to their Hall of Fame membership.

Done. That easy, that simple. The best part is that it still leaves it open for a couple idiots to use steroids and win baseball games but at REALLY cheap prices. There’s no benefits for breaking the rules, and congress need not get involved. Which ensures your precious tax dollars aren’t being used on the legislative equivalent of bull excrement.

You’re welcome America.

Colbert 2050

p.s. if you don’t actually know me, there’s no way for you to know that I know absolutely nothing about the game of baseball. So if I’m completely off base and this issue is significantly more complicated than I’ve made it, please let me know. I’m not above changing my mind. What do I look like? A politician?

 Neither grammar nor spell checked for your amusement.

They chain me down

And force feed me information.

With their knuckles, they break my teeth.

They cut my hair and give me a number.

_

I regurgitate.