Dear “I leave my seat twice every inning” Guy
Screw You.. Unlike you, I thought I might enjoy my day at the ballpark by actually sitting in my seat and watching the game. Unfortunately, I am unable to do this because you have a bladder the size of Qatar. How could you possibly need that many hot dogs, that many beers (okay, I understand the beers, I saw the girl sitting next to you) or that many Dippin Dots? I understand they’re the ice cream of the future, but good god, were you planning on watching any of the game? The thing that bugs me the most is that you refuse to leave during times that make any sense. Between innings, during a pitching change, whenever Jacque Jones is at the plate, these would be golden opportunities. But no, oh King of the Merchandise Booth, that foam finger was too good to wait for. I hope you fall down the stairs and somehow develop cancer from the fall. Screw You..
Dear Bad Heckler Guy
I hope you run face first into a brick wall. I would like to meet the guy who first told you that you were funny and should share your hilarious insight with the rest of us. When I meet him, I will cut his tongue off so he can never make the same mistake again. Your “Derek Jeter Sucks” comment? Not exactly gold. Guess what, screaming it over and over again doesn’t exactly enhance the joke. I realize your drunk buddies are laughing at you, and I am sure it feels good to know that 3 out of 35,000 people think your heckling is funny. Unfortunately, I am not one of those 3 people, and I wasn’t spurting milk out of my nose when you said “A-Rod? More like Gay-Rod.” Do us all a favor, instead of yelling out those zany thoughts of yours, write them dow, and when you’re finished, throw yourself off a cliff and make the world a better place…ass.
Dear Mr. Know it All Guy
I know you spent the last few days reading MoneyBall for the fiftieth time, and I’m sort of impressed that you would rather know Jeremy Bonderman’s WHIP then have sex with your wife. Unfortunately for you, I flat out don’t care about your opinion about anything to do with the game we are watching. Because you refuse to keep your binoculars and head set wearing ass quiet, I have no choice but to want to stab you in the throat. If you had anything original to say I might even indulge you by not spitting in your face. Unfortunately for you, repeating something Peter Gammons said in a Baseball Tonight segment does nothing for me or anyone else in our section. So keep filling in your scorecard so you can masturbate to it later and leave me alone.
Dear Ms. “we should totally all wear jean skirts and pink Cubs shirts” gal
First off, don’t think that this insulting article means in any way that I wouldn’t take you on a one-way trip to poundtown. But ladies, where do you think you are? This isn’t the bar. This isn’t the toilet seat that you snort coke off of. This is a baseball stadium sweetheart, and while when I’m 40 I’m sure I’ll appreciate you more, you continuing to ask “what quarter is it?” has me two seconds from committing suicide. I am sorry but any girl who wears stilettos to a baseball game should either have to pay some sort of heel tax, or have sex with me multiple times. The best part about you ma’am is that your sitting in 70 dollar seats, yet you don’t know the difference between Albert Pujols and a hole in the ground. So get out your cell phone with the rhinestones and Red Sox sticker, because you are going to need to call an ambulance when I throw my beer bottle at you.
People that can expect a letter in the near future:
* Mr. Random Jersey (wearing a Ortiz jersey to a Phillies-Mets game) Guy
* Mr. I think I’m on the Team Guy
* Mr. Start the Wave Guy
Violent J aka Big Trip
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