Last night, I went to a Red Sox game. They say that if you pay close enough attention at a baseball game, you’ll see something you’ve never seen before. I’m pretty sure they meant on the diamond, really. But hell — it’s a long game, and beating the hell out the Reds. So, in the process of seeing something in the game I’d never seen live — a one-hitter — I also tried to find a new tidbit of knowledge off the field, too. And here’s my report:
The first thing I noticed, while waiting in line for a bag of peanuts, is how freaking little ‘personal space’ children seem to need. I don’t deal with the things on a day-to-day basis, you understand, so I’m not terribly familiar with their ways. And apparently, one of their ‘ways’ is to brush up against the legs of whatever larger mammal happens to be near them. Poking with the elbows seems to not be out of the question, either — but the tykes’ parents get a little miffed if you poke back, I found.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m not entirely averse to the kiddies. They’re welcome to wander around whereever they like, dropping drool and snot and asking weird, surreal questions like, ‘Why do we pee?‘
(And I even know the answer to that one — we pee so we’ll always have a way to melt ourselves out, in case a snowbank ever falls on us. That’s easy. Ten thousand year ice age, plus evolution, equals urinary magic. I mean, duh.)
So, the kids are fine. And a ballpark is one of their havens, of course, so I’ve got no complaints, generally speaking. But honestly, now — if I really wanted something leaning on my thigh and schnuffling snot all over my pants leg, then I’d slather peanut butter back there and chase down the dog. No thanks, there, junior.
Anyway, it’s moot, really, because I’ve always known that kids have faulty ‘proximity to strangers’ alarms. So I didn’t really learn that last night. At least the little buggers gave me a bit of space at the urinal. Guess they didn’t want to see why I pee, eh?
So, next lesson. Remember that bag of peanuts I bought, five or six paragraphs ago? Well, about an hour and a half later, I was struck by the realization that a bagful of peanuts feels way heavier when they’re inside you than when you’re just walking around with the bag. In my hand? Maybe a pound or so. In my stomach, even without the shells? Approximately the weight of a Chrysler LeBaron. With mag wheels. And a sumo wrestler stuffed in the trunk.
(Oh, and by the way, I don’t like to see ‘sumo wrestler’ and ‘stuffed in the trunk’ in the same sentence, either. I’m just telling you how it felt, is all.
And while we’re at it, I know what you dirty pervs were thinking when I talked about the peanuts being ‘inside you’. That’s just nasty, people. Just a waste of good peanuts, if you ask me. And for chrissakes, if you must go there, at least shell the damned things first. You don’t know where those things have been.)
But, to be fair, I’ve stuffed my gob full of goobers before, so I knew what would happen. Bloating myself with peanuts and beer is nothing new for a Fenway trip, so that was nothing I hadn’t seen before.
No, it wasn’t until the sixth inning at the ballgame that I saw the off-field ‘thing I’ve never seen before’. At one point in that inning, the couple sitting in front of us in the bleachers stood up. And the woman… had the flattest ass I’ve ever seen on a female of the species. Ever. It was frightening.
And don’t get any ideas that I was checking her out, now. First of all, between watching the game, fighting through random children, and gobbling down peanuts, I had no time for that sort of nonsense. But when people three feet in front of your face stand up — and when you’re a lazy old guy, who’ll get up when the game’s damned over or when you need a beer, and not before — then you’re going to end up with an eyeful of ass. No way around it, really.
Except that, with this particular girl, there wasn’t even an eyeful there. She was a slender girl — not outrageously skinny, as far as I could tell, just thin. But she apparently was otherwise occupado when they were handing out the heinies. Maybe got a double-dose of brains, and she’s really smart. Maybe she can run really fast. Or maybe she had three boobs. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that she’s missing an ass from her inventory; I can only guess where it might have gotten off to.
Now, I’ve seen this ‘lack of ass’ phenomenon before — but never on a woman. Occasionally, you’ll see a guy that looks like he’s smuggling a black hole in his back pocket, and it’s sucking his rearcheeks into it. But women are curvier, or so I thought. This chick was just… sort of lumpy and flat back there. When she stood up, her pants looked like a napkin draped over a bed of gravel.
And that, folks — that was something I’d never seen before. Mission ac-freakin’-complished. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get rid of some of these damned peanuts. Wish me godspeed. Go Sox!Permalink | 1 Comment