Bacon Night


Game Notes From Thursday:

Bacon Bonanza Night at the Ballpark – the only exercise in gluttony better than Thanksgiving.

No Beer Boycott on Thirsty Thursday. All is right in the world …. for now.
Temecula Blake has made the trip up tonight. Most Excellent.
It is also Little League Western Regional Night, so that means those little Hawaiian Bastards are here. They are just waiting to loot E Street – I can feel it in my bones.
The Little League games star tomorrow, so HOPE is still alive for all.
Thunderheads above the mountains – lightning strikes imminent. First Responders are going to be busy tonight.
So the first bacon donut cheeseburger went down pretty fast. We will see if stays down.
A charming mother of three has a “Fuck Love” tattoo on her upper arm. I guess she hasn’t found Mr. Right just yet.
Shit, it appears the Washington team is our section. That is almost as bad as having to sit next to real live Canadians.
The 66ers employees are wearing their black polo shirts tonight because it is only 103 degrees. Perhaps they are wearing black because they are mourning the 66ers’ playoff chances.
Some old lady from Washington just informed me I was in her seat. I don’t think so ma’am – now move along, but could you be a dear a fetch me some maple donut bacon bars?
It appears that mullets are still a fashion statement with white youths in Utah if the Utah Little League team is any indication of the state’s style trends.
66ers brought up a pitcher from Rookie ball. Dilon Ortman is his name – he was an undrafted free agent from Auburn University, B-Ref says he is nothing special, but this is the time of the year weird moves happen.
I wonder if the Hell’s Angels use Geico for their motorcycle insurance – the video ad on the scoreboard sure makes it seem so.
Sweet Jesus, the old folks home from Washington can’t seem to find their correct seats. Hey OLD PEOPLE! Shouting isn’t going to help. What’s that? Oh, you are in the next section, not this on? Thank you for your patronage!
Season highlights on the big screen are accompanied by the Foo Fighters ‘ “All My Life”. Most of the highlights include Bernie and the Dance Squad.
No Wade Hinkle in the lineup? Where is Wade? Wade is hurt again, you say? Poor Wade.
Sound The Horn! Three dink hits = one run.
Golf Bum is not amused with the Little Leaguers. Lighten up, Golf Bum; those are tourist dollars.
Golf Bum might have a point – the Mountain Ridge team from Nevada is rather obnoxious, and their uniforms are hideous.
I think Stephen King is sitting a couple of sections over. Wait, that is just some other guy with grey hair who looks like he was also hit by a van.
Rookie concession workers can’t handle the crush of Bacon Night. To be fair, the Maple Donut Bacon Bar looks like it takes some time to prepare.
The Hags have arrived! Where have you been? What is that? You only come to games when school is in? Wait, you aren’t retired? Shit, I need to put my paperwork in now before I start looking like you people.
The stink of desperation is starting to overpower the bacon aroma. Funny how two types of charred flesh can smell so different. The bacon aroma will dissipate tonight – the smell of burning flesh and broken dreams will last all of August.
I think one of the Hags is trying to consume her Maple Donut Bacon Bar with a straw. She needs to keep her fingers free for her bacon nachos.
My son will not be getting a foul ball tonight as he is choosing to read the fifth Harry Potter book in his seat rather than shagging balls in the outfield. Sometimes a good book just trumps baseball.
There was some sort of bacon race – kids dressed in bacon racing. The moved the finish line back on the skinny kid so the fat could win. OUTRAGE!
Burt Reynolds. African American ballplayer for the High Desert Mavs, but Burt Reynolds the white actor’s picture is on the big screen when Burt is at the plate.
Living in a van down by the river still doesn’t get old. What the world needs now is a new Chris Farley, sans “Black Sheep.”
All my vitals indicate I am slipping into an insulin coma.
Whoa – the old people from Washington are loaded – Thirsty Thursday has kicked their ass.
Bernie loses the Mascot Dash because he fell down and started sizzling like a piece of bacon. The 66er Think Tanks don’t miss a beat.
The Hags have bourbon. Oh, how I have missed these ladies.
Golf Bum just heckled one of the Mountain Ridge team – “Your uniforms look like something the Cub Scouts would wear to a winter formal.” The Mountain Ridge team was throwing stuff at Bernie. Mountain Ridge dad is not happy and confronts Golf Bum. Golf Bum and Nevada Dad go off into the concourse to discuss matters. Nevada Dad returns’ Golf Bum doesn’t.
More bacon contests – this time kids in bacon costumes diving on Slip n Slides. I have no idea what is being promoted because INSULIN SHOCK has taken hold. Can one get Bacon Sweats?
Still no Golf Bum. Hey you, Nevada bastard, did you kill Golf Bum? Oops, I sort of yelled that. Nevada Dad looks confused. The Washington Old People think I am talking to them. Dirty looks are shot my way. They look like they are going to start stumbling my way. This needs to be nipped in the bud. I stand and yell:

The Washington Old People don’t quite know what to make of this. They sit down in confusion. Nevada Dad no longer thinks I was talking to him. Crises adverted.
Temecula Blake whispers, “You are one smooth idiot.”
This isn’t over, I tell Blake. I know where those kids are playing tomorrow.




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Sometimes It Rains

Game Notes from last night:

Two dudes in the parking lot, running an extension cord from their Toyota Tundra to a microwave. What are they doing with he microwave? Melting Styrofoam. Why? Who knows? It is best not to initiate a conversation that type of crazy. I can’t help myself though:

Me: What the hell are you doing?

Them: Melting stuff in our new truck.

Me: Why?

Them: Because it is fun.

Me: Why don’t you just warm up a burrito or something?

Them: We wanted to make sure this would work so we didn’t torch our food.

White Lady in front of me at the ticket gate with a hot pink shirt with the siloullete of an AK 47? The lettering reads, “It’s because I am Black, isn’t it? Stop AR 47 Ammunition Legislation. I wonder whom she voted for in the last Presidential election. Sigh, it is going to be that type of nigh.t Bye By Miss American Pie Indeed, Mr. PA Dude.

It looks like the 66er are expecting a small crowd for this Saturday night game, even though it is a T-shirt giveaway. The Beer Gardens are closed, as is the bacon hot dog stand. FUCKERS. I guess with the impending apocalypse, people are staying at home with their loved ones. Pussies.

It is 3D Night also — they gave glasses away at the gate to stare at the scoreboard. Too bad that HARD RAIN is on the way. The American Fabric is unraveling.

PA Dude feels it also; transitions into “Born in The USA.”

The T-shirts have something to do with the 3D stuff, and they are so, so UGLY. No wonder the crowd has stayed away. Or maybe it was the six errors that led to eleven unearned runs last night.

“Jack and Diane” – wait, maybe this is the 4th of July mix.

The three main cities that comprise the 66ers’ fan base are San Bernardino, Riverside, and Redlands. Riverside used to have their own team, but the city didn’t let them sell beer, so that team left. Moreno Valley is the next biggest influx, but those fuckers are criminals, and we try to stop them in Ritchie Canyon.

Redlands appears to be in the house tonight – looks like one of their All Star teams is having a Pack The Park Night to raise money. Good thing Little Bads is not here, or he would be heckling the hell out of them.

“Everybody Wants To Rule The World” – no 4th mix – PA dude is feeling the impending loss of innocence.

Kongo’s “Come With Me Now. “I am with you, PA Dude. In fact, I am purchasing this song on iTunes right now.

The Faithful aren’t here yet. I hope they didn’t get into are bar fight. Temecul Blake and Whiskey Jack aren’t here yet either – they might still be at bar.

“Bullet With Butterfly Wings” – yes, PA Dude feels the oncoming onslaught.

PA Dude just switched to cheesy dance music. THE MAN must be onto him.

I feel raindrops. The End is near, and I did not bring a jacket. I brought a flask though.

I think one of the Dance Squad forgot her bra. Unfortunately, the 3D glasses aren’t much help with this particular investigation, but Bernie just came at us out of the scoreboard on a motorcycle. Eat shit, James Cameron. This is a high budget affair here tonight – too bad no one is here. FAILED PROMOTION.

Moreno Valley Pony League is here. Coach lights up players about the way they have line up for pre-gam intros. You guys are sure to go far with that IRON DISCIPLINE!

3D Tricked Out Trickshots. Baseballs on the big screen going through hoops in 3D. I wish I had dropped some acid.

Hey, you know that Esurance commercial with the dude photocopying himself? I just watched it in 3D. I also just watched a balloon filled with nacho cheese explode – in 3D, then in real life. Man, that was awesome.

Dennis Hocking’ little kid is being interviewed. I don’t think there are too many forks in that family tree. His advice for his dad: “Don’t get thrown out of the game, Dad.”

Now the Geico lizard is doing his thing in 3D. There is a sexual element that does not exist in 2D. Is it a tail or a giant cock?

Security is bringing an old lady a rain jacket. How sweet, especially because she will piss in by the third inning.

The cleanup hitter, Gabriel Guerrero, is the Beer Batter. “Gabby” chants have already started, and we aren’t even to the National Anthem yet.

Fiddy is here. I haven’t seen him yet this year. Everyone thought he went to Great Outfield Burm in the Sky. Fiddy is a carney with a heart of gold, and a rolling Christmas display. He is called Fiddy because a very long time ago, he had a jersey made that said “Fiddy: Oldest Rookie in he Cal League. He used to bring cleats to the game – now he brings displays of American flags and and LEDS wrapped around poles. His newest jersey is “Fiddy Five”, but he has been wearing that for years. Unlike most of the Freaks here, he is good people, and a wealth of ORAL TRADITION, plus he can heckle with the best of them.

The Hags are drinking dark beer tonight. Updates to follow, but my bet is they are casting spells again.

Stephen King’s doppelganger is here again tonight.

3D rollercoaster on the big screen. Crowd goes wild.

Microwave Boys just walked by. They are on shrooms, acid, or something else good. Suddenly, their parking lot behavior makes so much sense. I should have been nicer to them.

66er pitcher nails Maverick in the shoulder. PA Dude play Monty Pyhton, “Tis but a Flesh Wound.” TENSION. Benches almost clear.

Is there anything sexier than a college girl eating cotton candy? Yes, Whiskey Jack coming back from the restroom with four beers. You know what that means—the Beer Batter done struck out.

The skies are unleashing. Rats are drowning.

Hot mom walks by with teenage daughter. Daughter’s shirt says, “Game on, Bitches.” Game on, indeed.

High Desert Tweaker (Female) I having a meltdown. Po-Po gently escort her way. She slaps one of the cops. She be going to JAIL.

Khaki Pants goes all dickhead in concessionline because another line opened because of Last Cal Crush. I only know this because my flesh is weak, and we abandoned the Beer Boycott.

Hey Grouch, you are holding up the line with your petty bitching. KP doesn’t like that, but the line backs me up. KP retreats.

“Old age doesn’t make someone an asshole; assholes just get old,” yells Fiddy as KP leaves.

[Fiddy Narrative to follow].

Here comes the flood. Most of the crowd is leaving. The ones who stay, well they are my people. Fiddy wants a picture for his scrapbook.

Sappington is for the save. You know, once this kid’s career is finished, I am going to hire him for something – perhaps my driver, perhaps just to stand in my lawn holding a lantern (no blackface).

66ers win! Hope is still alive.

Whiskey Jack, Fiddy, amd I just sit for a while under an umbrella, watching the grounds crew struggle to put out the tarp.

“It don’t get much better than this” Fiddy says. Fiddy is so right. If Khaki Pants were still around though, I would fuck him up.

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Behold The Hurricane

Unwritten Rule in Berdoo for players: Never, ever disrespect the game on the field in our park because we will FUCK YOU UP. You are in A ball, not in The Show. You are not good to think you are bigger than the game, and if you do it here, you will forever remember our names. This goes back to Fiscalin Field, long before San Manuel Stadium. Berdoo might be a shithole, but it is SERIOUS baseball town. The Little League Western Regionals are in this town. Come in here disrespecting the game, and you will get a lesson.

In the top of the sixth inning, Brandon Jacobs of the Rawhide jumped in the home plate ump’s face about a called Strike Three that was right down the cock. Nothing Night had been turning RAUCOUS up until then, but Jacobs’ crybaby antics took things to a new level. As Jacobs sulked to the dugout, about 2500 fans jumped his shit. Jacobs was obviously taken aback, but then gestured to the crowd.

Bad move, Brandon. Bad, bad move.

There are two ABSOLUTE TRUTHS in the city of San Bernardino:

1. Give a hobo a Subway Sandwich, and he will try to sell it for meth.

2: Gesture to a 66ers crowd, and you will lose a piece of your soul.

Jacobs was immediately crushed by ire from the crowd. This is A ball, dammit, and no one here has paid their dues long enough to show up an ump. Jacobs responded by smashing his battling helmet into two pieces on the bench, drawing more catcalls. However, since it was Nothing Night, and there was no scoreboard, no one in the stands knew his name. Thanks to the 4G Network, the entire crowd soon Brandon Jacobs was the asshat behaving poorly.

Perhaps the violent reaction of the crowd scared the 66ers ‘relief pitcher. Or perhaps he just sucks. Five runs later, Berdoo was down 5-2 The crowd really didn’t care; their teeth were still firmly locked on Jacobs’ ass.

It has been a shit ass season for the 66ers, but in the next half inning, the 66er fans in attendance fell in love. The 66ers dropped a six spot on the Rawhide with perfect execution of the game coupled with a Wade Hinkle tater.

Look, there is all sorts of feel good bullshit in baseball narrative, but for one night, the 66ers were not about to let their fans down for one half inning. And the fans responded. Jacobs was forgotten for the moment as genuine affection showered down on the players. During the exciting rally, both fans and players were feeding off the vibrant energy of the NOW. The Rawhide players, used to playing in tiny stadium (2500 capacity) filled with cowbells, were visibly stunned by what was transpiring. Spoiler Alert: They never recovered.

After the inning ended with the 66ers back in the lead, the fans’ attention returned to Brandon Jacobs, who was up third in the inning. By this time, aided by the smart phones, certain fans had the goods on Jacobs. They knew that he had once been a rising prospect in Low A with the Red Sox organization, then began flaming out in AA, so was traded to the White Sox for Matt Thornton. They knew he was going the wrong way on the prospect ladder, and was struggling in his return to A ball, hitting under .230 while fanning three times more than he walks. Most fans didn’t know this; however, they just knew he shown up an umpire.

Often, the fans unloading on the opposition can be ugly – bad hecklers with alcohol involved equals bad results. But tonight, BEHOLD THE HURRICANE. As soon as Jacobs put on his batting helmet, the falsettos started:

Brandon, we are watching you. You have been a naughty boy.

Brandon, we see you. You have to face us.

Brandon, God called. He wants your soul back.

By time Jacobs stepped into the on deck circle after the leadoff batter was retired, the crowd was LOUD. Gone were the falsettos, replaced with deep shouts. Even the Righteous Stoics were being vocal – apparently, a smashed batting helmet allows those guys to feel alive. Or perhaps we really had reached the Pastoral Age, and they were in Nirvana.

After the second batter was retired, the “Brandon” chant started, not softly but loudly. Sure, this derisive chant has grown stale in Major League stadiums, usually an emotionless exercise started by someone who lacks creativity. In the minors, however, the lack of creativity is dwarfed by passion. For a player to receive a name chant, he must have really pissed off the fans in attendance,  plus it is probably the first time in the player’s life that he has been targeted like this, a far cry from the handjobs received prom queen in high school.

When Jacobs whiffed on the first pitch, parts of the crowd were on their feet as the “Brandon” chant resumed. When Jacobs swung for the fence on the second pitch and connected with nothing, the crowd knew it was going to win this battle, and the intensity of the chant increased, along with some well timed solo shots about Jacob’s career status. The third pitch was a borderline pitch on the outside corner, which the umpire called a ball. For a moment, all fury switched to the umpire, but the fans quickly refocused on Jacobs, who weakly fouled off the fourth pitch.

The next pitch almost sailed over the catcher’s glove, and it appeared that perhaps the pressure was switching to the pitcher, Michael Smith. “Throw him the heater, Rickey!” someone yelled, which just never gets old. Smith did just that, blowing by Jacobs for strike three to end the inning. Someone in 66er management, probably GM Joe, made the perfect executive decision and declared that Jacobs had been the Double Secret Beer Batter. The rush to the beer lines was on, and every 66er employee was helped pour beer in the concession lines.

Good times. Good times.

The 66er players continued to please the fans in the bottom of the eighth, adding another four runs, including a three run blast by Wade Hinkle. By this time, the celebration was going full bore. There was still some unfinished business in the top of the ninth; however. Would Brandon Jacobs make it to the plate again? Thanks to a hit and a HBP, Jacobs came to the plate with two outs and two on, and it all started again. Jacobs flew out to right to end the game, and the crowd roared, feeling JUSTICE had been dispensed. Whether Jacobs learned a lesson or not is up to him, but now the fans had more important things to worry about, like high fiving each other and free tacos.

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Paging Senator Boxer

Dear Babs:

I don’t have time for pleasantries today, you minx, but I must inform you of an atrocity occurring in your realm. At Dodger Stadium last night, I was forced to park with the peasants, despite my preferred Parking Pass in Lot F. You and I both reached out stations in life by climbing over the backs of peasants—- well, you did anyway. I bought into that fairytale about empowering the poor through education, but like you, I sure as hell don’t want to have to park next to the working poor. I know you can emphasize with my pain.

As I am sure you are aware, it was Yasiel Puig Bobblehead Night last night at Dodger Stadium, so the masses were in full attendance. It seems someone forgot to tell the parking lot attendants though, who were obviously nor prepared for the crowd. Yes, Babs, parking at Chavez Ravine is always dicey, even if one has LOCAL KNOWLEDGE.  However, in a true caste system, the Dodgers’ ownership instituted a Preferred Parking program that allows the important people to pay a bit more to avoid all that nonsense.

I must say, Babs, the program had been working pretty well up until last night. Sure, there have been a couple of snafus on Stadium Way this season, but those were LAPD’s fault. You know how those guys can get now that they just can’t beat the hell out of someone with their billy clubs anymore – they play passive aggressive games with traffic control. Last night, though, things were an absolute mess in the stadium parking lot, and I cajole you to make sure things are rectified immediately.

I pulled onto Stadium Way at 6:15 yesterday, plenty of time for a 7:10 Dodger game. However, traffic wasn’t moving. My first thought was that one of those guys selling the counterfeit hats that walks up and down the middle of the street finally got run over. While that would have been a victory for Selective Darwinism, it certainly was playing havoc with my itinerary. By time we made it to the stadium parking entrance, it was 6:50, and we never saw a smashed up hat seller. We did see plenty of drinkers jumping out of their cars to urinate in Elysian Park though – mostly recent post grads who still think they are in college. Can you please find these lads positions in Sacramento so they do not befoul the local park system? Meanwhile, every time a car inched by us, Li’L Bobby and the Executor would shout, “Those are four more bobble heads getting passed out before us! They are going to run out!”

Anyway, we when finally arrived in Lot F, it was full, which is completely unacceptable. One of the reasons it was full is that certain Nuevo Rich were parking their Infinitis, Land Rovers, Lexuses, etc. in two spots.  We even witnessed a Fiat pulling this maneuver. I think you would agree with me, Babs, when I say, “Fuck those people.” I mean, they don’t even own true luxury cars. Just as I was about to get very frustrated, a parking attendant in a golf cart drove by and asked me if everything was alright. As you probably deduced, this did not end to my satisfaction when the golf cart dude said he did not have the authority to have autos towed, although Whiskey Jack leaning out the window to yell, “You are doing a helluva job, Brownie!” was quite humorous, mainly because the car door opened on him.

We finally found a spot by the Sunset Avenue entrance, which if you know your geography, is a long way from Lot F. Even then we had to squeeze between two monster trucks whose owners obviously suffer from erectile dysfunction. I think you can imagine how stressful this was, Babs. I really need you to put the fear of God in the Dodgers, who are obviously just sitting on their billion dollar TV deal instead of looking out for their season ticket holders.

When Mr. Stan Kasten raised the parking price back to the McCourt Era fees, he assured the public that the extra money would help ease existing parking problems. I laughed because that was obviously a crock of ####; Kasten just wanted the additional revenue. I did not mind because it did not affect me.  Well, last night, there was a breakdown, and I was affected, Babs,—worse, I was soiled.

Normally, I would handle this by myself, but I figured you hadn’t been in the news lately, so you could not only expedite matters for me, but get yourself some positive PR by taking on the obviously corrupt Los Angeles Dodgers. At the very least, empower the Golf Cart Dude. I have faith you will do much more than that, Babs. I have a hunch that you are going to make Stan Kasten use some of those billions to bulldoze a Fastrack Lane through Elysian Park on Stadium Way. That would be progress, Babs! Sure, it will piss off the naturalists, but they have bigger fish to fry with that Climate Change thingy.

I look forward to your progress updates in this matter.

Your friend in baseball,


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Pujols Fleece Blanket Night

Albert Pujols Fleece Blanket Giveaway tonight – on the hottest day of the year. Even the cacti are pissed today. Golf Bum isn’t even wearing a sports coat. Air quality is not too good tonight because Rancho is still burning – no Quakes tonight though as Lake Elsinore is in town.

Of the thirty billboards plastered on the outfield walks, only appear to be businesses based in San Bernardino. Poor, poor San Bernardino – literally.

I am sporting the Old School 66er Beer shirt tonight because Beer is this fan base’s favorite player. Perhaps this is the night I purchase the Beer shirt with the new logo – I damn well won’t shoplift it because I learned my lesson from Josh. Those cashiers have eagle eyes.

The tent is back on the right field pavilion. There is quite a bit of meat cooking out there tonight. – -a rather large party I out there, and I believe it’s a bunch of “Before” pictures for Jenny Craig. How many chickens had to die to feed that bunch?

And I have a stat sheet. Things are right again in my world – and the Mad Hatter is gone, and the regular microphone dude is back.

The stat sheet informs me that Rolando Gomez has been released. It’s a tragedy to see the dream is over! I never will forget the day we met. Girl, I’m going to miss you!

Dude on the PA system is singing about 24 tallboys on the chill. My daughter informs me the name of this song is “Parking Lot Party.” Uh, we are inside the stadium.

Two of the Hags have arrived with grandkids in tow. Perhaps I should come up with a more benevolent name for these ladies. Maybe not – one just flashed her teeth as she was spraying OFF on herself. I bet by the end of the game she will be spaying that bug repellant in her beer.

Four groundskeepers on the hose because they are professionals, dammit!

I want an IE Logo hat, but they only come in black. Marketing fail. I am not going to wear a black hat in the heat.

The Firm is on the PA now. Satisfaction Guaranteed indeed. I sense we are on the cusp of something EPIC tonight. Uh oh – the Yucaipa Little League is here tonight – little Nazis are the worst, and there is going to be a parade – the Nazis are having a Pack The Park Night – Pack the Park with Nazis!

The dude next to me, Blake, is wearing a Juniper Hammerhead hat — I need to get he bus rolling to Florida PRONTO. Man, that is a cool hat.

Duanel Jones is the strikeout batter of the game.

Here comes the 66er Dance Team in their wholesome high school cheerleader outfits. Once the sun goes down, the sultry will come out.

One month into the season, the regulars of Section 102 are staring to do bonding thing. Fortunately, this sectioned is battle hardened (unlike those pussies in 103) – these people are like Fox Hole Buddies. It is a good thing because Section 104 is nothing but Vatos.

We do have a swath of corporate seats in our section – — seats purchased by Toyota and Pepsi and given to clients. We call those patrons New Meat.

Mr. Clean is here in 102 tonight — that bald fucker would probably bite the heads off chickens if he went off his meds. Since he is on his meds, he is on his second hot dog.

Mark Shannon just got called up from Burlington. The Hags are ogling him, those saucy wenches.

Casey Kelley is making a rehab start for the Storm – Carlos Quentin is here also. Zach Grienke says hi, Carlos.

First pitch temperature is 87 degrees. The stadium is filling up.

The Faithful are all over Blue by the second batter. The drinking must have started early.

Quentin fans – strike him out; throw him out DP. GLORY

Big Weenie Race — Willie (Green) wins. I am not really sure how I am supposed to feel about that.

LB snags a foul ball in the bottom of the first. The lad is a HAWK.

Sound the Horn! Kelley is fooling nobody. Even the outs are being crushed.

Wine on the Rocks from Barefoot Refresh – the Hags are shooting it.

Woody Woodpecker laugh for the Storm cleanup hitter who fans.

Tyler DeLoach is dealing for the 66ers. It is almost time to start calling him “Nuke”. Oops, consecutive double -– better hold off on the nicknames.

Roll out the barrel – Strikeout Batter is up. Jones ropes a single. DeLoach is getting smacked around now. CARNAGE.

DeLoach nails a guy in the head with 88 MPH. Nuke! Hit the mascot next!

Cal Towey at the plate – so close to being a cool name, but yet so far.

Tequila! Crowd is getting raucous – there is an energy in the air. Or perhaps everyone is liquored up. The Yucaipa Nazis are probably firing up some ovens.

Kat wins the Lion Roar with deadpan, bored sarcasm. She better get a good prize. Her dinner bill was outrageous tonight. She won an Animal Crackers T-shirt? Are you kidding me?

I broke down and bought the IE hat because I am a consumer, plus I decided I would only wear it at night. There was a little trouble finishing the transaction as the 66ers do not take Union Oil gas cards.

Shannon with an inside the park HR! GLORY! Sound the Horn! Well, there will a couple of errors on the play, so it won’t go in the books as a HR, but it is in spirit.

The Double Double batter bunts. Hey Asshole; In and Out is on the line!

What is a soccer scarf? The 66ers are giving them away on May 30th.

Quentin is 0-3. The crowd is piling it on him. Rehab can be hard.

Diego Goris is up, and the PA plays the “Go, Diego, Go” song. I thought I would never have to hear that damn song again. Diego hits a three run bomb.

The Dance team has shed some clothes. Still not quite to sultry yet.

Bang bang play at second leads to Hocking For President. Fans sarcastically scream for instant replay. But Herr Selig says baseball has never been more popular!

The little kid in the mascot race was fast and was determined to get to the real home plate. He almost pulled it off. The photographer snagged him. Get used to it, kid – THE MAN will always try to keep you down.

The new courthouse lights are on because justice never sleeps. The Ghetto Bird streaks across the sky because crime never sleeps either. And here come the sirens. Get the coroner out of bed because he does sleep.

A fat couple in 104 is making out something fierce. Love is in the air! Security is moving in. The lady is indignant. Her freak has been interrupted. The heckling starts; she flips the bird.

Rally Man and Promo Girl are the new sensation. I don’t believe Promo Girl is wearing a bra under that Morphsuit. I wonder if she is trying to seduce Rally Man.

The game ends with a 66er loss, but more importantly, where was the Dance Girls final routine? Sultry denied!

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Quakes Toilet Paper Night

Quakes Toilet Paper Night – the I-10 Rivalry (or is it the I-210?) gets serious tonight as the giveaway is a roll of toilet paper with the Quakes name on it. It isn’t even the official Quakes Logo.

The 66ers staff smashed a Quakes’ car in the entry way to the stadium. What is a Quakes car? An old beater with a sign that says “Quakes” taped to it. Looks like no expense was spared for tonight! Let’s break stuff!

OUTRAGE — Mr. Congeniality at the hospitality tent says they are sold out of stats sheets tonight. That is horseshit – how do you sell out stats sheets a half an hour before game time? Hint – tell someone to print some more.

Crazy J just got toilet papered by the Mad Hatter. I think that is Crazy J – it might be someone dressed up as Crazy J. What type of desperate broke person would take that job? Fuck that guy and fuck Crazy J.

Looks like to be another sparse crowd – guess the TP just isn’t soft enough to draw a big crowd. The Wheelchair Brigade is here though – the wind yesterday couldn’t beat them down because they are RESILIENT.

Canned music for the National Anthem. This must be “On The Cheap Night.” Or maybe the “Death of the American Dream Night”.

88 degrees at first pitch. Summer comes early and will probably stay late.

It is a Crazy J knockoff – named Crazy A – I assume a stands for asshole. Fuck that guy.

The Hags, a benevolent group of Kettle Corn snarfing elderly ladies who somehow escape THE HOME every so often, have been drinking. They are vocal tonight, and it is only the first inning. Little Bads feels inspired to join in – don’t look at the saggy breasts, son – they will draw you in.

The Road Warrior is here. He is a Quakes fans who supposedly goes to every road game to cheer his boys on. We call that stalking around here, Perv. You are just a couple of curves from your road completely unwinding. He and I will exchange words – -we always do. Scorpion and Frog.

Stolen base – the Hags are ecstatic.

The 66ers cleanup hitter is batting .100. I am not sure who he is because I don’t have a stat sheet. He is below .100 after that strikeout.

Big screen is showing Great Moments in Quakes History – a walkoff HR by the 66ers last year. Now that is something I can get behind, especially if it keeps Crazy A off the field.

80 year old man in an oxford and khakis getting Jiggy. The Wheelchair Brigade starts yelling obscenities at him. I love these people. They can’t dance so know one else should. Wait, the old dude is a Quakes’ fan. Fuck that guy. Get out of my section, Freak!

HR Quakes – the trash talking in the stands should start in 3-2-1….

And right out of the gate, a 66er fan retaliates with “Go home; your house is burning!”

Quakes Fan: At least we own homes. Yours has been foreclosed on, so you rent!

Advantage: Quakes Fan. Meanwhile, the God of Fire is planning to burn Berdoo.

Holy shit – the Hags are retired teachers. Is this what I have to look forward to? The reality show better gain some traction quickly.

Just noticed the canvas from the right field pavilion is gone. The wind won yesterday. Maybe that is why tonight is on the cheap.

Crazy A pulls a college girl on the dugout – she says go Quakes! The crowd calls her variations of whore. LB asks me what a prostitute is. Someone who will be your friend for money is my reply. I will hear about that one tomorrow from my wife, but tonight is a rivalry game, and the Road Warrior is eyeballing me.

One of the Hags makes a comment about umpires’ stature and testicles in one sentence – something about short guys should still have a large enough sack to make the right call, but with much better alliteration

Sound the Horn!

There is a Quakes’ mother standing up by the Quakes dugout with her infant in one arm while she text with the other. I know a guy named Fly who would say that is Selective Darwinism just begging for attention. I normally don’t agree with that dude, but he would be correct in this case.

Sound the Horn (again)! The Ramones!

Quakes’ HBP brings out “Tis but a flesh wound” from the PA.

Quakes’ fans sitting behind me. The Hags are going to eat them. Literally.

Golf Bum is here tonight! Golf Bum is a grizzled man who wears a visor from PGA events, and a sports coat. He’s like a sunburned mummy who has been dropped in a jar of formaldehyde. Unlike most of the bat shit crazies here, Golf Bum is lucid.

I think the wind blew midges down from Canada. Look, bugs, flying insect are not indigenous to this region. You are lost!

Quakes score three runs, and their contingent start clamoring to “Sound The Horn.” If they weren’t so dumb and ugly, they’d almost be cute. Two words: DUI Checkpoint!

And now, a debate in Section 102 breaks out over whether DUI is a word or acronym. I am going to hurt some people.

The urinals have Quakes’ deodorant paddies in them. Maybe that is why I didn’t get a stat sheet.

Leo Rodriquez comes to the plate, and “Dude Looks Like a Lady” gets played. Poor Leo .

The 66ers third baseman obviously suffers from a disease that prevents him moving to his left.

Another Great Moment in Quakes History – 66ers walkoff hit in the deciding game of Round One of the playoffs last year versus the Quakes.

Quakes Trivia – the last time the Quakes won a Cal League championship was in 1994 – the same year Justin Bieber was born.

Someone is smoking a lot of pot. Or perhaps the city really is on fire.

Bernie slips on a banana peel in the race with the kid. I guess most of tonight’s creativity was invested in the urinal paddies.

Diving somersault by the 66er pitcher to rob a bunt single from the Quakes. GLORY!!

Comment from Section 102: Look at those anemic batting averages! Can we put steroids back in baseball?

Road Warrior is felling cocky with his boys up 6-3. His socks don’t match. Astute baseball writers note things like that.

Hey, My Town Hall just upgraded in Clash of Clans! Man can’t live on baseball alone.

Sound The Horn!

Moo and Brew changed the promo – is is cow tipping now.

Radar gun says 132—I believe that is off a little bit off

Men in their twenties should not ask Bernie to take a selfie with them. Have some pride, drunk frat boys.

Quakes fans are booing one of their hitters wit ha .240 BA getting walked. 66er fans are booing their manager for intentionally walking a .240 hitter.

Denny Hocking is the manager of the 66ers. He is now arguing fiercely with the umpire. A “Hocking for President” button flashes on the Big Screen. The Faithful might weep. The rest of the crowd roars.

Quakes pouring it on late. Quakes fans getting mouthy. Golf Bum yells, “Hey go back to your stadium with its little scoreboard. You know what they say about fans with little scoreboards – that is right, they have little cocks!

Advantage 66ers.

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The Lotrimin Incident; April 11th

Extra inning loss for the 66ers last night—this is going to be a very long season as the team is devoid of prospects. Plus, I ended up at Applebee’s, which is never good. The wife went to the grocery store before seven—- her being up that early means I am in the dog house. I suppose she’s right—- I am too old to flash my bare ass at people at baseball games, but CIRCUMSTANCES SPIRALED.

A few things need to be prefaced before I begin. First of all, if Time Warner weren’t such a bunch of greedy cocksuckers, we would have probably never left the confines of my bar; we’d would have stated home to watch the Dodgers. Secondly, the bad blood between the Righteous Stoics and myself goes back to the Great Beer Batter Night in 1999 (a story to be visited later). Thirdly, and most importantly, I have a raging case of jock itch.

This is one of those stories when the climax happens almost immediately, but the after effects linger for a while, if not ever. It was Super Hero Night at San Manuel Stadium, which sounds a lot cooler than it really was. Certain 66er employers were in costume, as well as some dorky fans who look for any excuse to celebrate Halloween. Whiskey Jack and a couple other buddies were enjoying a Hangar 24 Orange Wheat (well, not WJ because he is boycotting Hangar) in the beer gardens down the third base side when the Righteous Stoics walked by in full force.

“I am surprised you aren’t in costume, Mr. Exuberant,” sneered their leader, King Jackass.

“But I am!” I replied. I Captain Red Nuts! Hear Me Roar.” And with that, I yanked my bottle of Lotrimin out of my pocket, turned may ass towards the Righteous Brigade, dropped my drawers, and sprayed to cool, cool relief on my nutsack. Hasty, perhaps, But I was damn sure that I was going to set the tone for the season with these guys.

To their credit, the Righteous Stoics did not overreact initially. Later, well, that is open for interpretation.

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