Baseball's Been Berry Berry Good to Me

Okay, I lied. Truth is… I could care less about baseball.

But, do you remember that bit? It's from the old Saturday Night Live skit with Garret Morris. That's about all I can hear in my head when I see a baseball game on television and a player of an unknown ethnic origin comes hobbling along from the dugout like a half-dazed liquor store regular to the field chewing his cud. I watch as he putts out to his grazing place on the diamond and Morris' insanity echoes throughout my thoughts saying, "Baseball’s been berry, berry, good to me..."

Well, I should say so. Where else can you be out of shape, wear nerd-o-rama, two-sizes-too-small uniforms, not shave, consume large quantities of yet-to-be-illegalized Hungarian pharmaceuticals, keep pine tar in your garage, spit so much that you make a llama envious, and grab every conceivable body part known to man and get paid millions of dollars? I just don’t think I get it.

Baseball’s pace is too slow- overpaid, overweight, polyester-clad chewing knights and bishops and pawns chug around the chess game in front of overly patient fans who act as mindless as Mardi Gras spectators chasing after a Taiwanese trinket when a ball whizzes past their head. I got a sacrilege sense of blasphemy just now as I wrote that being that I’m a) a New Orleanian, and b) an American; mocking those two things can’t be good.

Now I’m craving Cracker Jack for some strange reason and I just saw a huge six foot hotdog run across my lawn and a barker is barking concessionary barkings and the smell of popcorn is whiffing past my nostrils and … I think I need a break.

Maybe I’ll go watch a round of golf.