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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Bobble Head Night

Game Notes from last night:

Mike Trout Bobblehead Night – only 1500 bobble heads are being distributed, so the line is around the stadium. First really big crowd of the season. Season ticket holders are allowed in early to secure bobblehead and get food before the concession lines grow. Membership has it privileges.

Whiskey Jack made it official and bought season tickets tonight. The Beer Rebellion has begun.

Ran into the GM before the game. He still seems a little bent from the Lotrimin incident last week. Look, Dude, just because I said I would have your job one day once the reality show took off doesn’t mean I will have it TONIGHT. We can still be friends, and I will let you come to the new Redlands stadium. You will have to buy your own ticket though.

The masses are rolling in, meaning the regular gates must now be open. Hey Peasants! I am on my second beer.

66er players are presenting the Fan Code of Conduct on the big screen – they are all wearing ridiculous animal hats. If they refuse to take the Code of Conduct seriously, how can I be expected to follow THE RULES?

Season ticket holder next to me is also Lake Elsinore Storm season ticket holder – he is in his mid 50’s and brought a glove. Unless he is getting in the game, we are going to have problems.

Best thing about our seats in the waitress comes to us, which skirts the California state law forbidding beer vendors selling to people in seats. Take that, Mr. Law Dog!

God, what a mix of fans in this section this year. Bikers, Bible thumpers, hot rodders, senior citizens, scouts, tattoo worshippers, fat people, skinny people, pretty people, lots of ugly people, Jews, Christians, Muslims, atheists, and even black people. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like there are any Irish here.

This is a perfect night for baseball. When the weather is this splendid, dark thoughts begin creeping into my head – dark thought like chasing Bernie with an axe. The Bug will be avenged!

The Bankruptcy Series continues. Stockton versus Berdoo.

GLORY! Diving play by the 66er SS. His name doesn’t matter because GLORY will be fleeting with his kid.

Almost a sellout tonight. Lots of First Timers — people attending their first game of the season.

The 66ers honor veterans by playing Sammy Hagar while the veteran stands on the dugout. That is torture. WAR CRIMES.

Beer Batter is up. 0-2 count. Foul out to catcher. The fans groan. Nice to know where everyone’s loyalties are. Cheap beer!

Home Run. Ports. CARNAGE. Shania Twain “You Don’t Impress Me Much” comes on. Fuck Canada. Fuck Mutt Lange.

Off day pitchers charting pitches on tablets. This is the 21st Century, Baby.

Aaron Shipman is batting. Celine Dion’s Titanic comes over the PA. God, I love these people.

Bobby Crocker is up and they play… CAKE! We are subliminal here.

Injury delay… “Kasmir” is on.

The beer is flowing in this section now. FLOWING.

Jack wants me to get a Maple Leaf tattoo. I am not sure why.

The 66er Dance Girls are whipping the crowd into a frenzy with “YMCA”. Those saucy wenches.

Sound The Horn!

66er gets hurt — the organist plays “Iron Man.” That is right – the 66er have a DJ and an organist because that is the way they roll. I still don’t have wi-fi access though. Fuckers.

Abel Baker, a Repeat Offender, is up. He is batting .053. CARNAGE, as in new profession soon.

Beer batter is up again! Doesn’t strike out (again). The anger from the crowd is something one can touch. If only there were a word for that – like PALPABLE.

Sports Watch contest was obviously fixed tonight (one side of the stadium tries to outshout the other). Who slept with Bernie?

A hot rodder just told me to cruise or die. Okay, then. Life is a dichotomy.

The Sappington Stare Down. Fucking Awesome. Better than Cake or Pie. No wonder they gave this guy a bobblehead night. Mark Joseph Sappington is a AA pitcher that was here last year. He has the bro personality of a Nick Swisher or Brett Lawrie, but Sappington somehow pulls it off as cool. Anyway, even though that hyper fucker is pitching in Arkansas this season, he has a hysterical ad on the big screen about his big night. After the ad, his video persona has a stare down with a contestant on the dugout with hilarious results. I hope this is a THING this season

The Dance Girls are sultry now. SULTRY. This is a family environment, not a strip club, girls. My son is at an impressionable age! So I am for that matter.

Josh, the dude in charge of season ticket sales, is running around in an full orange body suit. I guess he has watched [em]The Watchmen[/em] too may times and thinks he is Rorschach. Now there is a female one in blue. I am pretty sure she has had breast augmentation. They are doing something on opposite dugouts to promote a Rally Inning. I have had too much beer to figure out this lunacy. The rally doesn’t happen. Josh and Blue Spandex have failed. 66ers lose. Time to go shoplift at the team store.

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66er Home Opener 4/10

Expanded beer gardens — things are getting serious this year.

Winter has been hard for The Faithful – -their feet are reaching for the grave. This looks to be Body Count season — every game will be a count to see if they’ve lost anybody. One sees me, gets the groups’ attention, and in unison, they glare at me. God, I have missed these people.

Bring back The Bug! I scream as Bernie makes his first appearance. An old woman in the Jello Brigade shoots me the finger (the Jello Brigade is a group of senior citizens that sit together and ll have missing or rotten teeth). God, I have missed these people.

There is a 350 lb white man wearing a Homestead Greys jersey. I will never understand jersey culture.

A tweaker from the High Desert just walked by with a hitch in his step. Red Ribbon Week didn’t take with this guy.

My wife is busting my balls ever so slightly for bring Whiskey Jack to the game, Scorpion, Frog, Sweetie.

The new 66ers jersey are tits. Phoebe Cates in Fast Times type tits.

Quiet Riot’s “Cum on Feel The Noize” starts the game.

Jabari Henry leads off for the Mavericks – he has 2 HRs already, but is only batting .156. ISOLATED POWER. Leadoff walk.

The ushers wear blue instead of red this year. The Crypts are happy; the Bloods are pissed.

Pathetic Opening Night crowd. Whiskey Jack estimates less than a thousand people here. Times are a tough in Berdoo, I believe WJ I incorrect though – there are at least 2500 people here; WJ has been drinking al lday.

New graphics on the Jumbotron are just amazing . The 66ers have the best scoreboard in the minors.

Sherman Johnson, last night’s hero, opens the bottom of the first with a hit. And promptly is thrown out trying to steal.

Whiskey Jack tells Mr. Grumpy to dive for a foul ball. Mr. Grumpy, a senior citizen (a theme is developing here), mumbles incoherently about trajectory, then shoots Jack the bird. God, I have missed these people.

Lights just went off. This better not affect beer sales.

Billy Idol during the delay. It’s a nice day to start again.

Power is back on — everyone is doing the Carleton. God, I have missed these people.

Wrecking Ball! Is Miley pregnant or not? Who is the father?

Running of the Cows — adult in cow suits, racing. Moo and Brew Steakhouse, a place with delusions of grandeur. It used to be the Rotten Oak, a great dive bar, then they tried to make it respectable, but all hey did was pave paradise and put up a parking lot.

Barefoot Refresh – Wine on Ice! What an exciting time we live in!

OmniTrans! Why walk when you can ride – for $1.35 you can go all the way to Chino!

Sound the Horn! Sound that beautiful Horn!

Homestead Grey is my new homie, but he might eat himself to death by the end of the game.

Mrs. Bads purchases the Belgian Waffle!

BULLSHIT! The fifth inning fly by had not image of a jet! Just the Hangar 24 logo. HORSESHIT! Audio doesn’t cut it, you rat bastards! You fuckers just lost your exclusive beer sponsorship of my book.

6th inning perhaps the greatest minor league promotion/contest called “Cake or Pie”, sponsored by a local bakery. The gist is this—parent and kid get on dugout, 66er promo dude pimps the bakery, then gives the kids a choice of cake or pie. If he chooses pie, he gets to smash his parent with the pie. If he chooses cake, the 66er staff ambushes the parent with the pie. Guess who get to play? My son smashes a whipped cream pie into my face while we are on the third base dugout because I take the whipped cream from my face and rub it in his hair that is the way we roll in my family.

I just realized I have been drinking my dinner tonight. Fun for all! Time to find a bacon wrapped hot dog or two. Or six.

The 66ers acknowledge my wedding anniversary on the Jumbotron. So you have been getting my emails, but are just telling me your email is down because you cannot accommodate my outrageous requests. Any more duplicity, and I will switch my allegiances to the Quakes. Wait, they have Crazy J. Fuck that guy. But thanks for putting the anniversary thing up on the Jumbotron. Maybe Mrs. Bads will want to come back tomorrow night for Super Hero Night.

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