Don't Be A Menace.

Alright. We've got to address a few things that have been going on lately. First and foremost, let's take a quick moment to discuss the horrible tragedy and subsequent ass-clown-ness that I've been seeing (not by choice, mind you) occurring on baseball diamonds all over our great nation. Listen, I understand. You don't even want to know the extreme actions I had to resort to in 2000 when an autographed group photo of 98 Degrees was up for grabs. Yeah, I get the obsession with taking home an irreplaceable souvenir from a really important ball game or best concert of your life. I bit someone. Don't worry, this was way before the days of communicable disease and I definitely have "Get Tested" on my to-do list. Plus, if it hasn't shown up in 12 years, lets keep our fingers crossed that I'm safe (also, Red Cross: I'll keep you posted on the status in terms of the blood I've donated.)

Anyway. I went home with that autographed picture and a quick meet & greet; but you know what else I went home with? My life. Granted I did leave a semblance of a black eye on some poor bitch but, that was part of the cut throat world of boy bands at the turn of the century. I didn't like it, but, god damn, I went through it. So . . .

These grown-ass men dodging and diving for home run balls . . . IDFK what to say. Come on guys! Put down your motherfucking peanuts and crackerjacks; and slow down the train that has you tapping the Rockies with an ice cold Coors Light. The jackass that was pulled back to the stands from a widow-maker fall (I really am liking that phrase lately, IDK why, just go with it) by his brother and friend was standing, barefoot, on some shelf with debris everywhere - not the safest of conditions! And what's worse, in watching the replay, the ball was no where near him. If he was a basketball net, that baseball may as well have been a brick. Talk about a field of dreams. 

And you know what else? As I found out after my Mom picked me up and drove me home with my highly-coveted autograph; all that shit is available on EBay! Yes, I know it "isn't the same" as a . . . lucky catch, but really . . . really . . . drop the $150 and snag it there - and use your imagination to create the best-ever story of how you and Cal Ripken (he's a silver fox, so sue me; and plus, I am no fan of A-Rod) met and shared a PBR at a nearby watering hole.

Cool it, guys. Don't allow yourself to become a willing victim of Charles Darwin. So you aren't the "fittest," mentally or physically . . . big deal; it doesn't mean a seventh-inning stretch has to be the end of you. Even though, I, personally don't give a shit if you "ever get back" after "root-root-root"ing for the home team, I just don't want to hear about it on Good Morning America anymore - Mama's got more pressing news to keep up with.