Trip to New York City, Part II

The Mets and Asian Women

by  HogWild

I’m in New York City and just my luck, the Mets and

Yankees will both be in town. Now, I know a lot of you will reject this as grossly dysfunctional, but I actually cheer for both teams. My favorite team is the Mets, but I will root for the Yankees to kick butt against any team except my Queens Team. I think the reason I like both teams is because I’m from the Bronx. So therefore I, by law, must root for the Bronx Bombers. But on the other hand, I love the underdog. The Charlie Brown team. That team is the Mets.

So I had the great fortune of going to both a Mets and Yankees game while in town. I go to the Mets game and WHAT THE HELL, the idiot manager benches their best player! “He needs a day off.” Waaaah! No he doesn’t! Hell, put me on the field and I’ll take his bacon bits for the day! “But he’s a catcher, he can’t play everyday.” Give me a break! Put him at 1^st base or something. The man is not sick or injured. And for goodness sake, he’s not a surgeon, he’s a ballplayer! He can play! A day off, ha!

This nub did not exactly look happy to be alive.

And while I’m at it, we need some rule changes. I think Major League Baseball should adopt some of the playground rules I had as a kid. The first being “Scrub Hit.” This is the classic “Do-over” play. No one wants to see your clean up hitter hit a baby bouncer that dribbles to the pitcher. Each team should get 1 do-over a game to prevent these anti-climatic events.

The other rule is the N.B.O. (New Batting Order). How many times do I need to see Rey Ordonez (or insert any other skinny nub who can field but hits about as hard as Calista Flockhart) swing into a double play to end a rally? Each team gets to call N.B.O. once per game. Then they can instantly change the batting order so a real hitter gets a chance to bat.

His Hispanic Heiny may be a fan favorite, but he hits like a small child with Cerebral Palsy.

Also, if you want pitching to be improved I would institute the old explosive ball trick. Pitchers will be allowed 1 grenade/baseball per game. When pitched, the ball will explode in the batter’s face causing life scarring injuries. And the best part is, you never know when he’s gonna throw that pitch!

Blastball. Screwed Ball.

 

It was really weird, but I just so happened to bend down to tie my shoe near this guy, and all of a sudden he starts getting donations like crazy!

And the other team, the Reds (the home team of Dayton since they’re about an hour away) has this player named Pokey Reese. So while stifling my yawns between throws to first, I started daydreaming. If this guy Pokey was addicted to nicotine, his name would be Smokey.

If he was Darryl Strawberry he’d be Cokey.

If he was funny he’d be Jokey.

Italian? Gnocchi.

Art Garfunkel? Folkie.

If he was a dancer, he’d be HOKEY-Pokey.

You can see just how exciting this game was. The best part was when Ken Griffey, Jr. stopped the whole game to trot all the way out from Center Field to the dugout to get sunglasses.  

All 50,000 people had to wait while Kool Kenny went to grab his designer shades.

I was livid! I tell ya, soccer may not be a sport but at least they can’t stop the game whenever they want. Nub could be laid out with a dislocated kidney and the game still goes on. But in baseball, nub needs his eye make-up and the world stops spinning. I screamed at him! I was like, “DO YOU HAVE ALL YOUR ACCESSORIES NOW?! HEY!! YOU FORGOT YOUR PURSE!”  

EmbarrASSing. Since when do you BOAST about being knocked out of the 1st round of the playoffs?

The Franchise waits on-deck, never to get a chance to play. The closest he saw to action was swinging the wood alone. I HATE when that happens! 

I was like, “I KNOW HE’S IN THERE! Let him out! Let him play! We want to WIN!” I can’t imagine the great Yankee teams doing anything like that. Only the Mets. Yankees losing by one run in the bottom of the ninth. One on, one out. Babe freakin’ Ruth is pickin’ his ass in the dugout, still hung over from a night of drinking and having bims grease pine tar on his Louisville Slugger. You’d be damn sure the manager puts his saggy Hall of Fame rump in the game! This is your franchise! The game is on the line—he plays!

Amazing. The Mets manager Bobby Valentine gets out maneuvered by Jack McKeon. And McKeon is 100 years old! McKeon needs pills just to stay awake and he can still outsmart Valentine! McKeon relies on an assisted breathing device and still he makes Valentine look like HE’S the one who’s drooling and squirting in his diaper.  

Let me get this straight. I have to pay mad units for a ticket AND have 10,000 ads plastered onto my eyeballs?

It was a rough day in Queens. But the best part about Queens is all the Korean Cable channels. Because they always have on these music videos of hot Korean bims singing some stupid ballad about egg rolls or something. And it’s got the cheesy lighting and bootleg camcorder fade-outs and stuff. But oh man, I love me a fair-skinned, long dark haired Korean bim. Especially one in a nurse’s outfit. With genetically abnormally large boobies. Puts me in the mood for some RAW FISH! Sushi you SLUTS! Sushi! Don’t be sick. What? Uh, JEREMY!

Ironically, on the day he receives his Silver Slugger Award, he does not get even one at bat.

These entire rows were reserved for Jeremy the Bloated Jew. This was his trash after just 1 inning. Jeremy actually bought  "Box" seats because he thought they came with a BOX of doughnuts.

I guess my love affair with Korean bims began in High School. Some peeps go to a school that’s all-Catholic, or all-Boys, or all-Girls. My school was for all-Nerds. Which was nice because it gave me my only chance in life to be seen as semi-cool. Like sometimes I had to paint pimples on my nose just to “fit in.” But the school featured a population of 1/3 Asians. Heaven. But each time I mustered up enough courage to ask one out, they’d be like, “Ooh nawagaki saki-laki-noway-inhell-you-ugly-jew-boy!” I was like damn—I know you know how to speak English! Stop frontin’!” These bims were no different than the white girls I asked out. Or the black girls. Or the Hispanics. Or the Irish. Or the Italian. Or the Indian. Or the Handicap. Or the morbidly obese. I needed a bim in a bad way in High School. 

I went to a business meeting and a baseball game broke out! Only in NYC would they run the Wall Street 'Scoreboard' at a ballgame.

Another stupid scoreboard game. They play this one at Yankee games too. Except there you have to guess which hat is hiding Mickey Mantle's liver!  

But I’m past that stage now. Maury Povich is no longer my personal hero. And although I still secretly lust for an Asian woman with a warm wok, I’m not possessed by it any longer. I mean, I’d never go so far as to marry a woman, adopt a starving Oriental kid as my daughter, and then like fornicate with her years later, unlike SOME Hollywood Directors. All I have left are my memories and my Christy Yamaguchi on Ice posters.

HogWild, or albino Monkey?