I need to get something off my chest. It’s been bothering me for almost a week now. Call it a rant, call it a bitch fest, call it a spaghetti dinner. I don’t care. Here goes.
As you know, we are a sports family. We participate in all sorts of sports, attend all manner of sporting events, and watch every sport they televise, including women’s college softball and hillbilly handfishin’. We don’t discriminate.
We attend a lot of Pirate games, for obvious reasons. There are 673 games a season. Lately, there have been a lot of people at the Pirate games. And that’s just fine with me. I love all fans, bandwagon or not. Ginny over at That’s Church did a great job capturing how many of us feel. Come one, come all, I say! Except…
If you are unfamiliar with attending baseball games, can you please take a few minutes to familiarize yourself with basic baseball game etiquette? For instance:
Please, for the love of all holy, do not wait until Verlander is pitching to McCutchen to decide to get up and walk 37 rows to get your beers. The rule is you wait until there is a break in the action, and THEN you go. Same rule applies coming back. You’re very slow walking down the steps with your two beers and your giant tub of Quaker Steak wings, and it makes me want to reach out and shove you down the remaining 37 rows to your seat, you inconsiderate bastard.
(Exceptions will be made for parents toting small children who are in need of sunscreen and/or a bathroom break. If all they want is some Dipping Dots, you make that child wait. It’s good for them.)
Guys? Look. I’m going to be honest here. Just because you CAN take your shirt off, doesn’t mean you SHOULD. At last Sunday’s game I was exposed to more fat, hairy, rotund chests dripping sweat and goo than any person should ever have to endure. Ever. I get it. It’s hot. Hey, I’m hot, too! We are all in this swirling death heat together. One particularly well fed gentleman walked past me, and since I was in the aisle seat, I was actually subjected to his sweat flinging off his disgusting arm pit and landing on my bare leg. Wanted.To.Die.
So please. Wear white. Bring a mister. Stay home. I don’t care what you do, just leave your freaking shirt on.
And my big one. The holy grail of complaints. This one is also for the fellas. The FAMILY BATHROOM is for FAMILIES. It’s not your PERSONAL SHITTER OF DOOM. Your gut and that Big Gulp your toting do not count as ‘family’. It’s for mom’s with babies to change, it’s for dad’s taking their young daughters to go so they don’t have to endure the men’s room.
IT IS NOT FOR YOU TO POOP IN, AND I SEE YOU! Oh, we all see you. I went to change Jones diaper, and I head to the FAMILY BATHROOM, and loo’ and behold there are two people in line. Both men. Both without children or babies. Unless they were brothers and going in together, they were breaking the mother effing rules.
I am going to start calling you out, Doom Poopers. Go blow up your own damn bathroom and leave the family bathroom alone. When I see you waiting, and I WILL see you, I’m going to ask you if you need directions to the men’s room. I will shame you into your place. And if you are in the family bathroom line AND you have your shirt off, I’m going to come at you like a spider monkey. You’ve been warned!
WHEW! Okay. I feel better! I’m heading to the game today and it’s going to be about a zillion degrees. Chances of fat shirtless men are about 100%. We aren’t taking the toddler, so I will be drinking. Chances of me taking down one of these guys in the family bathroom line? 100%. Ya’ll be on standby with my bail money, mm’k?
Yours in Let’s Go Bucness,