Illustration by Bob AulYou and your buddy were sitting in the lower view section on the leftfield side at a recent Angels game. You kept yelling, “Let's go, Angels!” and batting those stupid fucking beach balls around. I hate beach balls. I always make a point to pop them whenever they're within reach. Believe it or not, I actually go to ball games to watch baseball. After popping a ball that came too close, I noticed you two across the aisle shooting me hateful looks. As the innings wore on, I heard you muttering a stream of nasty comments about me. Did you notice that as I rested my head in my hand, my middle finger was casually sticking up at you? I was with my 74-year-old mom that night. Her knees were hurting, so we left in the eighth inning, and then one of you blurted, “Good, the fucker who hates beach balls is leaving.” That was my breaking point: even though you two had a pair of small children in tow, you obviously don't care about exposing them to profanities, so I glared back and gave you a nice “Fuuuck you!” Apparently you can dish it out, but you can't take it, so one of you—the fatter, sloppier one—ran up to me and started screaming, “YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME?!?” as blood rushed through the veins of your steroid-enhanced body. I tried to calm you down, but instead you screamed, “FUCK YOU!” at mom and gave her the finger! But mom, who grew up in the tough streets of late-'40s Minneapolis, simply gave you the finger and a “FUCK YOU!” right back, which weirdly made you slink back to your seat. Go Mom! The moral of this story? If you like to play with balls so much, you might try growing some between your legs.
—Anonymous
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