An Open Letter to the D-bag Sitting Behind Me at Almost Every Major League Sporting Event I Attend

Dear Sir,

You have ruined yet another ball game for me.  I knew it was happening again when you waddled up the stairs with your goofy-looking wife and obese Campbell’s kids behind you.  All four of you were staring quizzically at your tickets as though they held to answer to some important problem.  You were standing right next to me as you said, “BC, BD, BV 22?  Hell, let’s just sit here.”  You were fortunate that the game was between two small-market teams  that nobody cares about.  I began to wish that some  methed-out tweaker would come up and kick your ass for sitting in his seat.  This wish became my mantra for the rest of the game.  Sadly, it wasn’t to be.  You left the park that day with your ass in tact and everyone within ignorant ranting distance from you left the park a little bit stupider.

Nearly every ballpark that I have ever been to has almost the same seating structure:  Decks 100, 200, 300, etc.  Sections 1-50 (or somewhere around there).  Rows A-ZZ.  Seats 1-100 (or somewhere around there).  My kid could find his seat at the ballpark even if he drank four beers and then spun around for a few minutes.  I begin to wonder how you got yourself dressed. 

After an inning or two, a guy named Alberto Callaspo (kah-yai-spoh) came to the plate.  You looked at your wife and yelled, “Now you tell me how in the hell you get ‘Callaspo’ outta the way that guy’s name is spelled.”  I’m not sure what you were hoping would come out of such a statement.  Maybe you thought that his mother in Venezuela would somehow hear you and apologize for either misspelling or mispronouncing their surname?  Perhaps you were hoping that former president Bush would pop out of the woodwork and use his powers to change every Callaspo’s name to ‘Clint Black’.   To be honest, I’m still not sure.

A few innings later a batter from the opposing team reached base on a single.  He then advanced to second after a passed ball.  You spent five minutes  explaining to your son what a stolen base was.  Your wife had the nerve to ask you if the runner was actually credited with a stolen base “after a wild pitch like that” and you basically told her to shut up and do your laundry and you’d let her know when someone had a “woman question”.  Just for the record, IT WAS A PASSED FUCKING BALL YOU ASSHOLE!!  So now first base is open, there’s one out and the double play is no longer in order.  Last year’s rookie of the year comes to the plate and the home team starts pitching around him.  You, with predictable stupidity, begin yelling at the top of your lungs for the pitcher to “throw some strikes Goddamnit!”  It was at this point that I began debating about whether or not I should go pay $20 for one of those little wooden bats so that I could break at least one of your bones for every moronic comment.

Skip to the bottom half of the inning.  The bases are loaded and the batter for the home team hits a lazy fly ball to left-center.  You begin yelling “sacrifice fly!” like a crazed chimpanzee with a mental processor whose speed is somewhat retarded when compared to a chimpanzee of average intelligence.  Frankly, I was surpised to learn that you actually knew what a sacrifice fly was.  The center fielder pulled it down and the man on third broke for the plate.  The third base coach yelled, “Whoa!” as the ball shot toward the plate like a rocket.  Wisely, the runner held up and trotted back to the bag.  Unwisely, you hollered like a retard with a toothache for ten minutes about how ‘the stupid guy didn’t even send him.’  I promise you, you fucking hillbilly, he would have been out by 5 steps.

The rest of the game progressed as expected with you arguing balls and strikes from 1000 feet away, making ridiculously erroneous observations about the game of baseball and the one member of your family that wasn’t fat staring at my kids as though that was the only accepted method of making friends.  Sadly, this seems to be my lot in life as it happens at nearly every major league event that I attend, regardless of the sport.  Does this happen to anyone else?  Is this some sort of extortion attempt that I am unaware of?  Will a payment to the Morons Who Ruin Sporting Events, Inc. (MWRSE) make it all stop?  Or should I just continue avoiding the stadium and watch the game while I get drunk in the basement? 

Regardless, I have posted your picture at the top of this letter so that other fans might identify and avoid you in the future.  Please feel free to continue going to sporting events and yammering constantly about shit that you don’t understand. ‘Cause that’s what you’re gonna do anyway…

Sincerely,

The Mockers