I’ve been blessed to be the second coming of Mickey Mantle, but cursed to be on the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim. Awful team, awful name, and honestly, everything except the weather stinks. Most of the strip clubs close at 1:30 am. I mean seriously, thanks a lot for that extra half hour. Whatever’s going on, I’m sure Disney has something to do with it, they’ve always been a bunch of sadistic punks.
Anyway, playing in empty ballparks is surreal. At first, it was difficult to get used to this weird new feeling I had, like inner peace. After the first few innings, it hit me, and while I’m ashamed to admit it, I’m happier playing baseball without the fans. To put it bluntly, I hate them, and maybe humanity in general.
What kind of loser pays good money to watch grown men play a ridiculous game? And some of them are seriously emotionally invested in it. They care more about me hitting a homer than they do about their wives or children.
I know baseball is just a silly game, but I do love playing it. I’m incredibly good at it, and when you’re really good at something, it’s difficult not to enjoy it. From 80 feet, I could literally kill a normal person with a baseball. They wouldn’t even see it coming.
Am I a bad person to hate people? It isn’t just being introverted or antisocial, I really, really hate them. I try to be a good person otherwise, and I don’t ever smack people or even yell at them that often, but still, I can’t help feeling like I might be a little evil? We all know that people are jerks, but they aren’t really that bad, are they?
I know Mickey Mantle—he’s sitting right next to me, actually—and you, sir, are no Mickey Mantle. Aside from your disgusting $426 million dollar contract, you’re no different from any other millennial in that you’re spoiled, entitled and play too many video games. Are you good at baseball? Sure. Do you deserve to be a half billionaire? Fuck no. Next thing you know, you’re going to start hanging out with Elon Musk and Jeff Beso, talking about being the first baseball player in space.
If I realized how much money there was in baseball, I would have done that instead of playing in the NBA. Sure, there are more endorsement contracts for basketball players, but I don’t want to do Nike commercials. That shit’s humiliating as fuck. I’d have a lot more fun playing America’s favorite pastime since there are more people with the same name as me. Not quite as many as there are in soccer, but soccer isn’t a real sport.
I don’t mean to brag, but if I did start playing baseball, I would definitely beat that contract of yours. Now what would Jesus Christ, Lord and savior, do with all that money? Well, that’s a good question. I make my own wine, and I have all the bread and fish I could eat, but a Lamborghini would be nice. A cherry red Sián Roadster with “666” on the license plate to spite my friend downstairs. Some people think I’ve taken a vow of poverty, but that was pre-resurrection Jesus. This time, I’m coming back as a lion dammit, and lions gotsta get paid.
Most baseball fans are racist white men in their 70’s who still think there should be separate drinking fountains, so it’s totally ok to hate them. I say savor these games without those assholes yelling stupid shit at you while you’re trying to concentrate. Lord knows I wish I could do my job without an audience, but the law of Hell mandates that at least 68% of all torture must be done out in the public square so everyone can see. All those souls screaming screaming screaming 14 hours a day, 7 days a week 365 days a year for infinity years while I torture the Hitlers and Trumps of the world… well it can really put you in a bad mood. Luckily those voices stop when I’m sleeping. Maybe I just need to invest in some high-end noise-canceling headphones.
Or maybe I just need a $426 million dollar contract. That would certainly make me feel better about this stupid job.
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