Part of the fun of collegiate existence, aside from daily encounters with personal hairs that have little to do with your personal person, is learning the ways of Other People - defined as "people who are not you and thus probably responsible for those personal hairs". This goes double for us alumni of Home School, Class of 2006 (motto: "We Never Learned To Operate Combination Locks!"). We need to keep informed.
This in mind, here in beautiful Plantar, home of Aarkvard University, I recently attended a baseball game between the Plantar Paramecia and the Someplace Else Somebodies, visiting from - to the best of my recollection - somewhere. You may have noticed I'm a bit sketchy on some of the minutiae, but with good reason: it was my inaugural experience with this sort of thing, seeing as I have heretofore preferred to devote my time to somewhat more worthwhile pursuits, such as toe cleavage maintenance.
(Hardcore baseball fans please note: I'm being facetious. Toe cleavage maintenance is VASTLY more worthwhile.)
So my comprehension of the event was finite, in the sense that I did not understand a thing that was going on. Fortunately, the jumbotron was there to assist, by way of showing animations of the things I didn't understand were going on. It also showed ads for things, manly things, such as:
- Mortgage brokers with names like "Brent"
- Cars with names like "Nissan Eczema"
Nevertheless I undertook to review the game for you, my faithful readership, because goshdarnit, that is just the kind of dedicated pigignorant critic I am. Before delving into the meat** of my account, however, I should like to point out that my critical facilities were further compromised*** by the Twin Basal Laws of Baseball Viewing (sponsor: Prell):
I. The "sun," a large shiny star roughly the size of a Nissan Eczema, must be located directly in your personal face.
II. A large drunken hairy hominid exhibiting roughly the gas output of a Nissan Eczema must be located adjacent your personal ear, celebrating the passage of every two nanoseconds**** by roaring "CHEATER!" and carelessly rupturing several of your personal eardrums.
(I don't quite know what he thought he would accomplish by this. I can't help but wonder what he expected the baseball dude to do. Maybe gasp to himself, "I'm a CHEATER?!," then go home and enter, I don't know, the fluffy pillow industry.)
In other words, I was reviewing blind and deaf. But guess what? It turns out these are the optimal conditions under which to attend a baseball game. So I was primed for success, and throughout the game's remaining 37 hours*****, I took down the following incisive play-by-play, which may not be reproduced, imitated, laminated, precipitated, or sautéed without the Express Wok Permission of Aarkvard University, Dept. of Upperclassmen Appointed To Give Freshmen Free Flavored Condoms So As To Prevent Their Engaging in Non-Funky Sex:
- Nothing happens.
- Nothing happens some more.
- Brief time-out for toe cleavage maintenance.
- Nothing continues happening.
- Something may or may not have happened.
- General mayhem.
- Nothing is definitely happening again.
- Two of the players are named "Evan" and "Doug".
- One of the players (possibly "Evan" or "Doug") looks like Mr. Bean.
- Something might have happened at this point, but I got distracted by a dragonfly.
To be honest, it goes on like this for: some time. Then suddenly there occurs a massive catalyst, wherein the jumbotron displays a giant picture of the team's anthropomorphized mascot, accompanied by the words: "PERCY PARAMECIUM IS NOW AVAILABLE IN THE SOUVENIR STORE!"
Lest you think the thing was a total loss.
*This is an abbreviation, of course. Its full name is "B-B-Q-A".
**Pork loin. Because.
***Fortunately, they are over 18.
****Or, if you prefer the metric system, "millipedes".
****For those of you less familiar with the game, this was just after "halftime".
©2007, Nicola McEldowney/The Snark Ascending