Oh yeah, Reilly...?

So, anonymous internet friends, How was your weekend? Mine was pretty good, thanks. I went to the Yankee game Friday night. they lost, but it was their only loss over the weekend, so that's cool. Normally, I take Mrs. Don't-forget-where-you-came-from-cheese mac to the games. She is a great sport and always at least pretends she is enjoying herself. This Friday, however, I took my brother. We had beers and bonded etc. etc. etc.

The game was not really the most entertaining part of the night, however. At least for the people in my section. Here is just a little foreshadowing, if you will, of how the night transpired. It may be confusing, but like Pulp Fiction, if you stick around for the whole show, you'll see what I mean.



Halfway through the game, some poor sap and his girlfriend decided to sit in the seats behind us because "the heights are really bothering her..." Ok. Fine. No one was sitting there anyway. I'd do the same thing too, except I'd do it because I'd want to get closer to the action not because I've got fucking vertigo.

Anyway, so that was relatively uninteresting. But then it happened:

"these seats suck, too"
"Ugh, I hate these seats"
"why couldn't you get us better seats"
"[insert whatever fucking pain in the ass typical girlfriend thing you can think of and this bitch will top it with her hands tied behind her back]"

The poor guy is just taking it. Having his balls removed in front of 54,000 people. I felt bad for him, but I also felt great about myself and Mrs. Don't-forget-where-you-came-from-cheese mac. So, I decided to write her a text message to convey this thought I had.

Actual text message: This guys gf behind me is such a bitch. You are the best.

(actually, thats not the actual text message because I have a blackberry, and the BB is a wonderful machine with many excellent features and functions including, but not limited to automatically formatting things such as an apostrophe to indicate the gf belonging to "this guy"- a point that is, as I am sure you have figured out, debatable.)

If you read the parenthetical, you may have an idea of where this is going. If not, heres a hint:



Fast forward a few innings. And a few beers. Sugar and Spice and everything nice is walking back up to her seat and as she is approaching, leans in, bumps my shoulder and hits me in the head with her bag. The subsequent conversation took place:

DFWYCFCM: What the fuck was that?

Insanebitchygirlfriendofpoorschmuck: Oh, I'm sorry. Was that bitchy of me?

DFWYCFCM: [turns to poor schmuck] Dude, what the fuck?

Poorschmuck: Maybe you shouldn't be writing texts about people who are sitting right behind you...

DFWYCFCM: [to himself] woops.

IBGFOPS: asshole

OK. So. A few things, here. First: I had kind of a George Costanza-Jerk Store moment. I froze after that. I didn't say anything because, well, I felt kind of bad. But then, the more I thought about it, I had several thoughts:

1. What the fuck are you two assholes doing reading my phone?
2. Sit in your own seats, losers.
3. Was hitting me in the face with your bag an attempt to disprove my text?

I unfortunately, did not say anything along those lines right after the altercation. I waited for my moment: the end of the game. I'll look this guy right in the face and tell him what a fucking dickhead he is and to ask his girlfriend for his fucking testicles back. My jerkstore moment.

I did not tell the guy to ask for his balls back.
I did however, poke the guy in his chest as he walked by and said the following:

The sad thing about you, pal, is you know I'm right.

And he does.

And I bet the following two things have or will happen:
1. He thought of something clever to come back with as he was walking out of the stadium.

2. He will break up with his girlfriend within 2 months.