Zach Hates You

Dear last week, I hope you die in a fire.

Let us begin with the crash of my (once) lovely SV650.  My sad. beaten up moto.  Details?  Sure.

Setting: A wonderful sunny, albeit cold day on Queen Ann right outside my new to me apartment.  It’s the first day in forever that it hasn’t rained and I’m looking forward to hopping on the bike to have a ride while not getting soaking wet.  After taking off the motorcycle cover now that my bikes are sad outdoor motos, I stuff it under the cover of my little GS500’s cover, put the key in the SV and turn it on.  The bike roars to life and with it’s fuel injection is ready to go.  Looking forward to carving some asphalt, I put my still wet gloves on from the night before, then my helmet.  Giving a couple of unnecessary twists of the throttle, the shift peddle gets kicked out of neutral and off I go.

It’s one of the shortest rides I’ve ever been on.

Knowing that it’s cold out, I back off the throttle coming up on my first corner of my ride, a mere couple hundred feet away from where I started.  “I have cold tires, I need to take it easy,” goes through my head.  As I go around the turn, my back tire starts to low-side and I can’t help it.  The cold tires can’t stick to shit.  The back of the bike goes down.  Sliding on my ass I look up to see a large SUV coming right at me.   I’d say that has been one of my less enjoyed views that I have seen in my life.  Not long after that, impact.  My foot is wedged into the front of this SUV.  Did I mention that the SUV wasn’t parked, but coming at me?  Maybe I should have mentioned that.  Fortunately, he saw my wipe out and began to slow.  To his credit, no cellphone or TV, but actually paying attention to the task of driving.  Point for you, sir.

Here I am, mid-calf deep into a car, my bike on it’s side with it’s gas tank dented to all hell and plastics blown everywhere.  Me?  Alive with what I thought was a one way ticket to having my meals ingested through a straw for the next couple of months avoided.  Thinking that I still need to get out of the road, I tug on my foot to try and free it from the monsters grill with no success.  I’m stuck something fierce.  Oh, and in shock too.  That’s fun.  At this point, the SUV occupants get out of the car and are freaking the hell out.  It takes them a few moments to understand that I’m not dead, bleeding, or unconscious and help me get my foot out of their car.  I give myself a quick systems check, note that I’m not in need of any medical aid and talk to the guys after yelling a few choice expletives.

These guys are almost worst shape then I am mentally and they were in a big metal cage.  Talking to them a bit makes me realize that they are a bunch of pudgy frat boys.  Wonderful.  My sort of people.  I limp over to my SV and pick the damaged bike up off of it’s side.  Bluntly, my darling motorcycle is fucked the hell up.  The tank is beat to shit, the tail plastics have exploded into many different little pieces, my license plate lays nearby.  Not a pretty sight.  A bit of jiggling around and it starts.  Holy hell it starts!  That’s looking up.  I make a phone call to my friend while still in shock, but not freaking out too terrible (I hope) letting him know that my journey to meet him at the coffee shop has a bit of a detour.

An older couple walking by ask if everyone is ok.  They didn’t seem to care awfully much, but I’m sure they felt better that no one was bleeding on their nice afternoon walk.  A few more people my age do the same, but with a bit more feeling.  After learning everyone is OK, they point out on the side of the building we’re in front of  marks of previous marks from vehicles that have failed to make the turn.  He gives us his information and leaves into his apartment happy I’m sure that no one is dead in front of where he lives.

I see a familiar blue car come around the corner at us and lights go on.  Goody, the police.  Because I need a ticket on top of all this.  The cop takes his time getting out of the car, ensures that everyone is OK and that SFD doesn’t need to be called, then asks for everyone’s driving info.  Asking me for my plate number, he looks to the ground and noticed that it’s laying in front of him.  (Chuckling) “Never mind, I got it,” he says as he picked it up and hands it to me.  He then takes all our information and goes back to his car.  The officer doesn’t seem much for words as he honks on his horn and summons the driver to him.  After talking to him, he beckons me over with a wave of his hand.  Handing me a card with the incident number he tells me how he’s glad I’m alright.  Me too man.  Thanks for not giving me a ticket too!  That’s something I’m pretty happy about.  Bike starts, no ticket, and I’m still not dead.  wOOt.

The rest of this encounter has nothing noteworthy.  I talk to the guys, and give information as my friend who showed up earlier takes pictures of everything.  He grabs a bag from my house to fill it with the various assorted pieces of motorcycle that are no longer attached.  We say our good-byes to the dudes after exchanging information and I begin my power walk of shame to return my bike to where it started off a stone throw away.

I get phone calls and texts the rest of the day from the assorted folk of the UTMC wishing me well and happy to hear about my lack of death.  That helped to cheer me up a wee bit.  Thanks guys.

Sad, beaten motorbike.  It looks bad, but I have a feeling that it shouldn’t be too hard to get it road worthy once more.  Not as pretty, but I’m not too worried about that.

But that’s just the beginning of the shit storm.  I’m far from done getting screwed over by this foul week.

Moving on from a very loved bike, to my hated GS750.  The hand cramping bike that I’ve neglected since buying my SV.  Needing to rid the Hanta Haus of it after nearly a month of me moving out, the day after my wreck myself and a few others of the Cult gather to revive the bike.  Needing a new battery, spark plugs, and a tire to get back on it’s bead, myself and my friend in his truck venture towards a battery shop in the Rainier area.  Remembering that Twinline Motorcycles has moved, we look about for it before discovering that they’ve camouflage themselves well by renting out some space to some cages for parking.  It sounds quiet and all the doors are buttoned up, we approach the door with spirits low only to open the door easily and a bell sounding our arrival.  They are in fact open and happily shoot the shit, find everything that I need and only charge me the low sum of 30 bucks for a decent amount of effort and talking to the mechanic working on the beast back home a couple of times to assure the parts that I need.  With much thanks, we had to the battery store thankful about not needing to venture towards the money grubbing dealership all the way down in Renton.  We arrive to the battery shop and leave a short while later.  I lose $40 for a trade of a brand new battery filled with fresh acid poured out of a box that looks akin to the sort that the shitty wine comes in.  Yummy.

We return back from to the Haus victorious with our finds and get to putting them back into the bike where they belong.  Everything is ready to go, the key turns annnnnnd….

The bike fails to turn over.  Splendid.  Fastcat the mechanic gives it a puzzled look and goes back to tinkering.  A short while later, she sits back and unhappily says, “I have no idea why the fuck it wont start.”  Well…shit.  So a bit of stressing and talking about what the hell we are going to do with it and the plan is to go down to Oly where another of the Cult lives to stash it for later work on his garage.  My vote for setting the beast on fire was vetoed for some damn reason under the guise of a “learning experience.”  Let the flames take it I feel.  So I give Fastcat a bill, then myself and Calamari Kid make our way Southbound.

The day after the non-working GS, my bottem left molar looses a chunk of itself while I’m brushing my teeth.  This week, is offically the worst week I’ve had in my life.  Well, FUCK YOU LAST WEEK OF NOVEMBER.

Blug.  Currently, the fat boys have yet to contact me about the repair costs for the SUV and I’m waiting to be bent over leaving me with an empty bank account and scrambling for a job.  My poor SV is still not at riding status.  I’m on the search for a new gas tank and making a choice of making a bobber out of it or lopping the sharp parts off of the subframe and constructing some sort of luggage system.  Things are looking pretty good right now for that.  The GS750 is in pieces and still not functioning.  I’ve wrote it off as parts and scrap.  People are hopeful, but I am not.  As I’ve told others, it’s dead to me.  I think the bloody thing is cursed.  My tooth has yet to regrow and there was an appointment made today, for a month later.  I’ll have to deal with the pokey, temperature sensitive pain in my ass, broken tooth until then.

Yeah, eat a dick last week of November.  I hate your face.

Me: on sexy black SV650 getting off of work at 4am.

You: sweet effin Charger with brush guard, light-bar, and a shotgun.

As I was getting off work and heading home, I saw you far down the street ahead of me.  I didn’t want to catch your eye and just wanted to make it home, but you stopped in the middle of the road and waited for me.  I knew our encounter was going to be special.

I tried to get into the turn lane to go across the overpass, you matched my speed in a playful, “I’m going to check out your butt,” way.   So I slowed to let you be in front of me (ladies first) and made it to the turn lane I needed.  While I was slowing down to come to a stop behind you, a quick lane change and we were right next to each other.  I couldn’t muster up the guts to give you even a meek wave as you glared at me.  You rolled down the window so we could finally speak!  Never will I forget our first conversation, “Don’t do anything ‘dumb’ on that thing.  I already got you for having your plate bent (I knew you were looking at my ass!).  That’s one thing, don’t give me another.”

Oooooooo!  Fiesty!  Not wanting our talk to end so soon, I made a daring suggestion, but was still a statement that was nothing but truth, “I’m just off from work ma’am and can’t wait to get into bed.”  Unfortunatly, you didn’t pick up on my hint and barked back at me, “I just got on shift, am on three hours of sleep, and don’t want to put up with any bullshit.”  A girl that’s straight to the point.  No beating around the bush.  Rawr!

As the light was changing, I knew our wonderful time together was over.  I wish it could have been longer.  With a sigh, my foot pushed the motorcycle into first gear.  But before we parted, I had to say one last thing, “Have a good night,” which you promptly ignored while slamming your gas pedal and shooting onto the freeway.

So you know, I followed your words of “not doing anything dumb.”  I wanted to make you proud of my riding skill and prove that I was not a dumb rider.  I expertly went well over the posted 30 and 35 mph speed limit by a good 40 mph and quite dexterously wove my motorcycle across two lanes of traffic while almost grinding my foot pegs into the street.  I do believe you have been impressed.  There’s even a S turn that I set my own personal record on last night.  There’s no way I could have done it without your little pep talk.

You fucking pig.

Location: 1st Ave and Edgar Martinez Dr

“Respect is esteem for, or a sense of the worth or excellence of, a person, a personal quality, ability, or a manifestation of a personal quality or ability. In certain ways, respect manifests itself as a kind of ethic or principle, such as in the commonly taught concept of “[having] respect for others” or the ethic of reciprocity.

Esteem for, or a sense of the worth, or excellence, of a person, a personal quality or ability, or something considered as a manifestation of a personal quality or ability, for example, “I have great respect for her judgment.”

Deference to a right, privilege, privileged position, or someone or something considered to have certain rights or privileges; proper acceptance or courtesy; acknowledgment: respect for a suspect’s right to counsel; to show respect for the flag; respect for the elderly.”

Via wiki.

Recently, I’ve been told a number of times from other human beings that I’m not “respectin’” them enough.  Well, to be honest, I don’t respect them one god damn bit.

Lets begin with example one:

Location: Nightclub dance floor.

At the club that I work at, there are TVs in front of the DJ booth lining the walls.  Nice, flat-screen TVs that have stanchions with rope in front of them to give about a foot of room between the dance floor and the TV.  Now, I don’t know why every single damn week I have to tell people to stop leaning on them.  Every. Effin. Week.

IT’S A FUCKING TV PEOPLE.  DON’T LEAN ON BREAKABLE THINGS!

I know, it’s a hard concept to understand.  Now I’m sure you’re asking, “But why can I not lean on this very expensive shiny glass picture device?  I’m a patron and I can lean wherever I desire.”

On this night (the same night as the fuckstick with the mohawk), there is a short (again) annoying patron was leaning against the row of TVs.  I stop glaring at the rest of the dance floor, and shine my flashlight on the guys face.  The Surefire Defender is not something you can really ignore.  It’s made for blinding people temporarily in tatical situations, or for me, lighting up dumbass patrons in nightclubs.  I flash him a couple of times with my light and he acts like he doesn’t notice.  I flash him a few more times before I give in and understand that I’ll have to get off my perch on the dance block to have to talk to him.

I don’t want to talk to anyone.  We’ve been over this.

He’s with his girl friend who’s wearing one of those stupid “LOOK AT ME I’M A PRETTY PRINCESS” birthday tiaras.  She isn’t looking all that happy standing off to his side on the outskirts of the dance floor while everyone else is having a good time dancing.  Turns out I’ll be making her night even worse.  Poor girl.

I give him a gentle pat on the shoulder and say “Hey buddy, don’t lean on the TVs for me.” He responds, “Pfft, why?” with a grimace.  I’m thinking, “Because I fucking told you asshat,” but tell him, “You don’t lean on your TV at home right?”  The man of many words gives me a heartfelt answer yet again with a snort followed by, “So?” and continues his glare.

As I said earlier, this guy is not tall.  He isn’t physical threatening.  The dude is skinny and about the size of his girlfriend.  Needless to say, his attempt at intimidation isn’t working to well for him.  After his last curt response, I’m done with this guy.  I pull him off the TV and tell him, “Listen asshole, you want to keep playing with the rest of the people here, you do what I say.  I think your girlfriend would like to stay here for the rest of the night, and you better start behaving.”  He didn’t take my advice too well and starts talking about how I’m not respectin’ him and how I’m not respectin’ him in front of his girl, and blah blah blah.

He’s right, I don’t respect him.  Not in the least.  To show this, I turn my back and hop back up on the dance block in the middle of one of his idiotic sentences.  For some reason, this doesn’t go over well for him.  At this point, the guy I was covering the spot for is back so I begin to mosey around.  This guy is glaring at me everywhere I go.  His girlfriend is almost in tears and he is just pissed at me.  As I walk around the club, one of my co-workers asks who my boyfriend is.  This guy is upset and he hasn’t moved from where I pulled him off of the TVs.  Not happy.  Mission accomplished.

It’s almost time for let out and the lil bastard is just working himself up to say something to me.  He’s sneering to the point where he’s almost frothing at the mouth, breathing heavily and his lady is even more upset then before.  She’s pulling on him to leave while he’s ignoring her and looking at me.  She must be jealous of all the attention he’s giving me.  I’m way more pretty anyway.

I have to go deal with the little bastard that has the shitty mohawk at this point.  While I’m dealing with the jackass wannabe fighter, the little dude that I wasn’t respectin’ is waiting for me outside.  Let out takes about 15-2o minutes and he waits around for all of it.  He waits around for so long his girlfriend went to the car in tears and he asks one of my coworkers where I am.  My buddy tells me of this conversation later.

Jackass: “Where’s that white motherfucker at?”

Coworker: “Which one?”

JAss: “The tall one with a shaved head and a beard!”

C: “Dude, we have like 4 of those.”

Assface: “The asshole that looks like Jay Buhner.”

Motherfucker.  After hearing that I wish I would have been there later one.  I’m happy that he made his girlfriend cry though.  I think I’ll chalk that up to ME making a girl cry while at work.  Booya!

Example number 2:

Once again, at the wonderful club with the best patrons in the world on a Saturday night.

I receive a radio call informing me that I’m needed at the back door.  My lazy ass gets off the dance block that I was overseeing the crowd from (no, you can’t sit on the dance block) and I head over to the door to see what the crap is up.  As I climb the stairs I see why I’m being called out.  There is a giant of a goofy man outside smiling his big fake teeth smile when he see me approaching.

Fucking Lurch.

I don’t know Lurch’s real name.  It doesn’t matter.  Lurch is more fitting then whatever his parents named him.  About 6′10, wiry and dumb as the dentures in his mouth, this guy use to work with me at one of my previous jobs.  For some reason he LOVES me.  And I’m OK with that.  There’s nothing to complain about have a large dude (probably) having my back when the shit hits the fan.

As I call out his name in greeting, I notice something out of the corner of my good eye.  Some motherfucker is leaning on my bike.  “holdonasecman” I mumble while my urge to kill suddenly rises.

“Hey moron, get the fuck off my bike!” I yell to the smelly hobo leaning his nasty hobo elbows on my bike’s seat.  He doesn’t seem to understand English.

I fucking HATE hobos.  They’re smelly, annoying, and there’s so many of them, you couldn’t throw one without hitting another.  On the weekends the stupid shits are everywhere asking me for money that I will never give to them.  At one point I’d give them money.  I’ll discuss my hatred for hobos with another post someday.  Fuck bums.  Not literally.  Maybe with fire.

Stepping towards the waste of oxygen, I yell once more at him.  This time his eyes light up with acknowledgment, but still he rests his nasty arms on my beautiful SV650.

One more step and I’m reaching for my Asp baton.  “Please take your filthy fucking hands off my motorcycle,” I say quietly as I’m removing my baton from my pocket.

“That’s better, all you had to do was say ‘please,’” he says before noticing my gloved hands and my baton being readied for wack-a-hobo.  His eyes widen a bit more, but now he gets indignant.  “I didn’t mean to disrespectin’ you man.  I don’t go disrepectin’ people for no reason.”

That’s it.  I’ve heard enough of that fucking word.

“Listen you fucking idiot, when I was in Preschool, maybe even before that, I learned that I’m not to fuck with other people’s belongings.  It’s something that I still do to this day.  It keeps me out of trouble.”

He begins to open his mouth and I point my gloved finger at him in a not so friendly way.  “No.  Shut up.  Shut the fuck up.  Respect means not touching other people’s shit and my motorcycle is no exception.  Usually motorcycles belong to people that look like me.  Do I look like someone you want to fucking disrespect?”

At this point his “fight or flight” response kicks in.  His hobo sense is tingling or maybe that’s just the Colt 45 in his system ready to pull a Crazy Train all over his pant leg.  He begins to say something to work himself up to fight and save face in front of his hobo friends and I cut him off with, “You’re not worth my time you piece of shit.”  I tell my buddy over my shoulder as I walk back into the club loud enough so the bum can hear me, “If he touches my bike again, call me up again so I can cut off his fingers.”

I guess he left in a hurry after that.  Shame.  I wanted to be able to count past 10 using fingers that belong to me.  Maybe next week.

The moral of the story dear readers is don’t go disrepectin’ or I’ll take your god damn hobo fingers.  Oh, and don’t be short.  No one likes short people.

The 4th of July is always a slow night in the bar industry.  Everyone is outside during the day enjoying the warm weather, tossing back a drink or eight, and waiting around for day to turn to night so they can enjoy the pyrotechnics.  After being outside and playing all day, most people are partied out.  They go home and the bars don’t get too busy.  When working in the industry, it makes for a slow night.  Knowing ahead of time about a less busy night means we don’t run a full staff.  It also mean sales aren’t as good, but for a bouncer like me, I get paid the same.  Sucks to be bar staff that relies on tips to make money, but I get paid the same for a slow night as a busy one.

In my experiences working in bars, slow nights usually go one of two ways.  The first (and more preferable) is I’m bored off my ass and nothing happens.  Time sloooooowly goes by, the doors shut, and I get paid for standing around for a few hours.  The other way is much more annoying.  Due to less people in the bar/club, people think that they can act even more redeculous then normal.  I had a few stupid shits last night, but one really got me heated.

I hate people that are entitled.  People think that because they promote a night, know someone that works in the bar, paid money to be “VIP” or they’re celebrities/part of their entourage they can do whatever they want without any consequences.  That doesn’t fly with me.  When I have to talk to them about being an assclown and they get indigent because some club lackey is upset with them for just having a good time, they think they don’t have to listen.  They try to act as if they are better then the people that are providing them services.  Things are said about how much more money they make, how they can get me fired, or my favorite, “Do you know who I am?”

Oh, please bitch.  If you had any idea who I or my friends are, you wouldn’t even walk near us.  Most of my friends are like myself; we’re ex or current military from mostly combat related jobs, train to fight (and enjoy fighting very much), and really hate people.  We don’t want to know, talk, or even want to interact with you.  We want to look bored, talk to each other and get done with the night.  You want to cause trouble and be annoying.

The only reason why some people are still alive are because there are laws against killing them.

This brings me to the winner of the “Douchebag of the Night” award.  The above pictured fuckstick is a relative to one of the promoters.  He’s maybe, maybe 140lbs soaking wet with rocks in his pockets and at most 5′4″.  So this tiny dude was walking around throwing elbows, punches and grabbing his buddies in MMA style moves.  Cute, the midget thinks he’s a badass fighter.  Due to the fact I know he’s some annoying promoters buddy, talking to him isn’t going to do anything.  After a fairly easy night, most people have left, the doors are closed and the promoters and friends are still around.  The little guy then throws a friend in a really deep RNC and is being choked.  I break the lock and am a bit pissed at this short, drunk fucker now.  I tell him it’s time to leave and go out the door.  The friend he was just choking tells me, “It’s ok, he’s with me and just playin’.”  Funny about that, it’s not ok.  The one that was being choked apologizes about his friend, but short and stumbly has a retarded looking stare going on and doesn’t say a word.  Sure, ignoring me is a great way to make me go away.  What?  It didn’t work and just makes me more upset?  Funny about that…

Now I’m even more pissed.  So now trying to get this cockass to acknowledge me, he grabs his beer and walks away.  No, you don’t get to do that to me.  I take his beer, toss it in the trash, and he doesn’t even bat his eyes.  He’s fucking drunk.  I get a couple of my buddies now to help me deal with this pain in my ass.  The munchkins friends are telling me how they are “going to take care of him,” as stupid friends always say and tell me they are leaving.  They don’t.  The whole lot of them are standing around not going out the door.  I tell them if he ever wants to come back, the time to leave is now.  He tells me that I can go fuck myself.  Groovy.

So its been about fifteen minutes since I’ve started to talk to these guys and the little shit is now running his mouth.  The best line to come out of his mouth is “Look, everyone is scared of me.”  Oh shit!  He’s right!  I’m scared of a tiny little drunk man that I tower over.  I worry about people like him all the time.  I tremble in my boots to people such as him.  I’m sure that you my dear reader, can read sarcasm.  If not, I suggest reading more simple writing such as Dr. Suess books or just sticking to books that don’t have words, just pretty pictures.  Like porn.

The group is finally on the way out the door and wee man has to shake everyone’s hand.  He goes to my first two buddies that have had to tolerate him much less then me and they both shake his hand.  I don’t normally shake hands with people I want to curbstomp, but I remembered words of a friend that I spoke with last night in my head about sometimes it’ll make it quicker to get them the fuck out.  So I bite my lip and shake his hand.  He then mutters, “See look how scared they are.”  At that point I had to walk away.  I still haven’t struck anyone while doing security.  I’ve laid on some nasty chokes and I’ve been a complete asshole for the sake of being a dick, but I haven’t hit anyone or left marks on them.  I did something that I really hate people doing to me:

I took his picture

Now that set the little guy off.  He’s going off about me taking a picture with my “god damn pussy” iPhone and blah blah blah.  I finally hit a nerve.  Still, this guy needs a serious asskicking and, Flying Spaghetti Monster willing, a castration.

I hate this club.  I work other places and I call myself a doorguy or security.  Here, I feel like I’m a bouncer, an enforcer, a thug.  No one listens to what I tell them, being nice and polite is a waste of breath, and the only thing they respond to is violence.  I’m really good at that part.  I go to work with the mindset of going to war against stupidity.  It’s always a losing battle.  Shitty music that is replayed multiple times in the night, ignorant people, and stuck up promoters that think they run the place.  All these people can die in a fire.  Twice.  Waste of oxygen the whole fucking lot of them.

OK.  I get it.  I look like Jay Buhner.  You can stop now.  I hate baseball.  There are worse sports out there that I hate even more, but I don’t like sports in general.  Sure, I enjoy MMA, but my like of sports pretty much stops there.  OK, I’ll watch some ladies beach volleyball, but I mean come on, that’s for reasons other then the sport.

When I was growing up, I shaved my head.  We laughed about going to “Buhner Buzz Night” where fans that showed up willing to buzz their hair or already with a shaved down head would get in for free.  This was a time we’ll call “pre-beard Zach.”   While I was in the Army with a shaved head, there were a couple of people that commented on my likness to the man.  It didn’t happen too often and it’s not like the guy was Hitler so I didn’t think much of it.

Fast forward 7 years or so and I have a decently sized red beard and a mohawk, I work across the street from where the Mariners play, and Mr. Buhner is no longer on the field.  I heard one guy say I look like him.  Just one.  One fat man.  Sure, it’s happened every so often no big deal.

And then I shaved my head once more.

All week, “Hey look, it’s Jay Buhner!” “Do you know who you look like?” “Wow, you look like you could be Jay’s twin!”

Fuck you all very much.  I almost snapped yesterday.  I went from work near the stadium where a group of annoying drunks kept calling me “Jay” to the Irish bar I also work at to find them again.  I was nearing the point where I wanted to kick them out of my first bar for being fucksticks, but they left soon enough.  Then, there they are…still drinking at my other bar.  The sad part of this is I don’t think they realized that I was the same person that was shooting them death glares for an hour across the bar.  Fucking drunks.

So Mr Buhner, I have a favor to ask of you.  Please go back in time and please do one (or more) of these three things:

1.  Don’t shave your head.  I know that bald is beautiful , but maybe go with a crew cut or something.  No shaved head, no mohawks.

2.  “The Bone” minus the nicely trimmed beard will still be a badass.  I’ve heard that ladies like guys without beards.

3.  (This one would be the one I would pick)  Don’t be a famous baseball player that makes a  buncha money for playing a sport.  Granted, I know that baseball players do work a lot.  There are a shit ton of games in a season and about half of those are on the road.  Man, that sure must suck.  You know what would be easier?  Not doing it.  So instead of baseball, you could be an apartment manager or be a train engineer.  Then once I become famous from this marvelous blog, people would come up to you and say, “Hey, you know you who look like?”

To be honest, I don’t hate the guy.  There is no way that I hate a man who stars in very funny commercials and an amazing fact from teh wikis, “He was also known throughout baseball for his ability to vomit on command.”  That’s pretty damn impressive and I admit a bit of jealousy there.  Well played sir.  Well played.

I hate all the damn fans that walk up to me to tell me something that has come up for years.  You people and your stupid jerseys with someone else’s name on them.  Even worse are the jerseys that have “Fan” as a name.  You can’t even pick someone at random to put on your jersey to keep you from looking like a moron?  The people they put their own last names on their shirt are even worse.  You are a fat middle aged cubical jockey.  You will never play any sport professional.  Enjoy your $8 bottles of crap beer and your nasty garlic fries idiots.