It may not look like much, but from where I’m sitting, it offers the best view in the house.  There’s something to be said for observing one’s life without paying admission.  Who wants to pay inflated ticket prices to watch mayhem?

Look at the infield.  There is so much delusional refuse littering the ground, the game really should be suspended.  There’s no way the players can conduct themselves safely without risk of bodily injury.  But then. . . who doesn’t love blood on the field?  It’s not really cathartic if the game doesn’t reflect the bloody mess inside.

What?  Another penalty?  At this rate, everyone will be sitting on the side lines.  These are the most unruly players ever!  I don’t care if my stats are impressive; how am I supposed to live a normal life when all these characters are juiced and out of control?

Oh, I see they’re rioting in the bleachers again.  Those drunken fools don’t even care about the game.  They’re too busy schmoozing to notice.  It’s just as well really. . . if I had to factor in their dissent, I might be tempted to throw a few punches myself.

On second thought, I just may accept that offer from AT&T.  Running this asylum is a thankless job and it’s bleeding me dry.  The fans might call me a corporate sellout, but what do I really owe them?  Do I exist solely for the amusement of others?   When did I decide that spectators had a greater stake in my life?

Today, they get the boot.  I don’t care if they complain; I’m sick of the defaced walls and gum under the seats.  And furthermore, they can take those jacked-up players with them.  Maybe the mob can beat some sense into them; I never could.


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