From: iDRMRSR <alex.i.thymia@depression.org>
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Date: Tue, Aug 7, 2001 11:25 PM
Message-ID: <AC5553839D4B9016.2B98F623865F929C.7355EC6865024EDB@lp.airnews.net>
It must be a streak of Pink in me but I seem to be addicted
to the local
team, the Cleveland Indians. It's been like several
centuries since
they won a pennant but a couple years ago they ALMOST
won the World
Series and started selling out the stadium. But the
last couple of
years, they've been going downhill.
This year they seem to be occasional division leaders
at times. But
they have no pitching.
Last Sunday they came back from a 12 run deficit to
win the game against
the unstoppable Seattle Mariners. A complete miracle
not seen in the
history of baseball for like 76 years!
Last night they played the Mariners again, and instead
of wasting my
time on my ass in front of alt.slack, I decided to invest
a small
fortune and actually go to the game. Where, I sat on
my ass in
Cleveland's dank 90 degree heat. For three hours.
Cramming my face
with whatever high calorie food/fluid that passed my
way.
It gets to the ninth inning and we are behind 6 to 8.
We used up about
12 of our miserable pitchers and our star hitters were
having mostly a
dead bat evening. Nevertheless with 2 outs we managed
to get 2 guys on
base, and our best hitter, Juan Gonzalez ("one
GONE!") came up. Took
two strikes and a couple of balls. This was it, our
last strike, but if
he hit a run (.356 probability), we'd win the game.
The crowd was standing and cheering. Some retard with
a drum was
pounding away Indian rhythms up in the bleachers, a
local tradition. It
was at this moment that I thought of Bob. Here I was,
possibly the only
SubGenius Clergyman amongst the 40,000+ people in the
stadium. I
thought fast...
I whipped my SubG membership card out of my wallet and
lifted it high.
I cheered "Pra'Bob" several times to the amused
look of the people
sitting around me. As the last pitch of the last inning
took off on its
fateful path to our best hitter, I yelled "Hit
this one for Dobbs! FOR
DOBBS!".
The pitch was a perfect strike, game over, we lost 8
to 6 stranding two
men on base, the two that could have tied, and losing
the run that could
have won. But how else could it have turned out? Dobbs
fucks us over
on every X day so far. So naturally, he fucks Cleveland
over for good
measure in a significant game. Seattle could have lost
and never
noticed it. We would have gone to the lead in our division.
Praise Bob! For he alone shows us that the path to
Slack is not
achievable in merehume CON financed sporting venues!
And if you must be
fucked, if your whole sports loving town must be fucked
(and they
must!), who alone can do the job so efficiently, so
naturally, dare I
even say, so PREDICTABLY, than J. R. "Bob"
Dobbs.
With the other religions, several of which were invoked
in that last
at-bat, the uneven quality of their worshipped One leads
to a condition
known as Faith which is fueled by unevenly delivered
fucking called
HOPE. Yes, many people in that stadium, brought up
in those "other"
religions, showed their HOPE. But I knew better!
I KNEW Dobbs would tell me exactly what the score was!
And no possibility of Hope whatsoever. You're fucked,
you know it, time
to get on with your life. Always dependable Dobbs!
[*]
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Original file name: Bob Fucks Cleveland - converted on Thursday, 20 December 2001, 03:29
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