heroin

It’s Raining Baseball Fans

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Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?
This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.
Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.

It's Raining Baseball Fans

Posted on

Soon helmet giveaways at the ballpark won’t just be novelty promotions, but mandatory equipment given out before every game to protect lunatics from accidentally murdering themselves diving from rafters for collectible garbage.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the news, but there’s a hot new trend at the nation’s basedballing sport complexes: face diving onto cement from heights unsurvivable!

Last week at a Texas Rangers game, nearly seventy-five percent of the fans in attendance fell to its death from the upper deck. I’m sorry, I read that wrong, one man at a Texas Rangers game last week fell from the upper deck to his death. I apologize, that’s closer to 50%. Then, yesterday, during the Homed Running Derby of Hitting Competitions in someplace called “Phoenix” another idiot tried to hurl himself at a $5 souvenir laughably out of his reach and was only saved by the mistaken instinctive actions of those around him trying to protect him from his own unbridled stupidity as if his life were worth preserving.

This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?
This is really a guy you're going to try to save from what he's about to do?

Sports memorabilia is a very big, very dumb obsession, I know; I still have the bandana full of bottle openers that Charlie Hough hit me with at a Scottsdale Rite Aid back in ’98, and I cherish it as if it shattered my very own ocular bone: which it did. But these aren’t a home run ball that Mark McGwire kept his used steroid needles in after he’d already filled up the cat litter bucket he used to dispose of them in but before he had a new empty to fill, or the ball that Babe Ruth choked to death on when he mistook it for a heroin caked cheeseburger. The guy at the Rangers game was diving for a foul ball that Rangers outfieldman Josh Hamilton was throwing into the crowd and the idiot that tried to kill himself yesterday was at least ten rows away from a meaningless homerun derby dinger. Both of which, on the open market would fetch just about as much as any slightly used baseball listed on craigslist right now: “free, you pick up”.

Naturally, people hurtling themselves over railings, thirty or more feet above anything at all, is causing Major League baseball to look into the safety and security of their ball parks. Rather than simply, say, holding up these cases of the dip shitity of launching yourself from your insanely priced seats and understanding that the ball that the player that time will never remember just leisurely lobbed in your direction is the exact same one as those in the souvenir stand and probably isn’t worth a shattered face and traumatic, nationally televised orphanism.

And think of the players; won’t you? A quote from an actual article reporting the Rangers fan’s death:

There is also concern for Josh Hamilton, the player who tossed the ball. He’s battled his way back from addiction, and now has to deal with potential feelings of guilt over what happened.

Now please, don’t get me wrong, I understand that a professional atheletist must naturally feel some level of personal guilt that comes from shorting a throw, but I think the main thrust of the story is that a man just threw himself to his death in front of his six year old son in pursuit of a sports sphere of zero importance. Yes, it’s sad that the man DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE for this otherwise perfectly dexterous and well reasoned bat bases swing ball enthusiast’s untimely spine compression might want to have a drink after witnessing, someone so willing to put their life at risk, trusting completely in his ability to competently do what he is paid millions of dollars to do just a single time in a way that the recipient would not have to put himself in mortal danger, be so terribly wrong; but the story is about this suddenly shorter ex-father and his inability to see the ball into his glove like a four year old t-ball player. Focus up news story. If anything, this experience should certainly make Mr. Hamilton an infinitely better fielder as from now until he exhales his final dying breath he will envision every recipient of his throw as potentially falling to their untimely, comical death directly in front of their barely comprehending toddler as a direct result of his precision or lack thereof. That’s gonna make him throw all the way through from here on out I think.

Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.
Not a speck of awareness of his own mortality in his eyes.

I don’t blame Josh Hamilton for one Texas man’s lack of a self preservation instinct, that’s dumb. I also don’t blame baseball stadiums. I, as usual, blame idiots. They come in all shapes and sizes and they’ll accidentally assassinate themselves no matter how impossible the world tries to make it. Admittedly, a thigh high railing over a 30 foot fall is not the BEST tool to fight tools, but what WILL keep the stupid from jumping after the pretty approaching orb? As we have continued to moron proof the world, I don’t doubt at all that in the near future all baseball stadiums will be built with chain link enclosed bleachers, locking the crowd in like the animals they are for their own good. And of course, it still won’t be enough, because as any Giants fan at Dodger Stadium will tell you once they’ve regained the ability to speak, not all of the danger is on the field.

So over react as quickly as you can baseball. Encase the stands in memory foam and packing peanuts double time, because before you can say “problem solved” some forehead is going to choke to death on a hunk of NASA technology that his buddies bet him a beer he couldn’t snort.

Your Fizzy Drinks Want to Murder Your Children

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Have you ever looked through your grandparents old toys? Rifling through some of Grammie and Grampie’s old hoardables you come upon piles and piles of things that, if you were to give them to your children today, would probably result at least in your children being taken from you and at most, your justified execution for grossly negligent child endangerment. Every single toy that your grandparents grew up playing with was designed specifically to kill them. Everything was made of wood and lead and cholera. They were designed to shoot things and stab things and melt things. There was no part on any jagged steel toy that was not too big to fit snugly in your wind pipe. And yet, the weird thing is, you exist. Not only that, but your parents exist. Billions of people are alive today despite the 1950’s best efforts to murder each and every one of their children in as fun and exciting ways as possible.

But you’ll notice that we don’t have any of those fun toys any more. Now everything is made of Nerf and edible plastic. If you even try to throw any of your children’s toys they immediately disintegrate in the palm of your hand. And if one of these day glow, dull edged, squishy yawn blobs gets anywhere near a child’s eye or groin it immediately sends out a distress signal, and emits a low, inaudible hum that instantly sedates the child for 17 hours. Fun doesn’t exist anymore because stupid children ruin it for everyone.

But forget dangerous toys lurking in the darkness, waiting to strike, that threat has been neutralized. Today our weakest generation is being terrorized by beverages.

Now that says, "Seizure in a Can!"
Now that says, "Seizure in a Can!"

I like energy drinks. I am an energy drink connoisseur. I have partaken in just about every fizzy neon tinted can of jitter swill on the market (my favorite of which by the way is diet “Howling Monkey”, both because it’s red and delicious and because it’s called “Howling Monkey”, so incase you were looking for something for my birthday…) I’ve even tried Four Loko and somehow found it within’ myself to survive the horrible killer of men. But I am apparently one of the lucky ones who hasn’t been assassinated by these devious, clearly labeled, super caffeinated beverages.

A new report published in the Medical Journal Pediatrics warns that caffeine is bad for babies.

Yeah. We get that.

Caffeine, like tobacco, like alcohol, like crystal meth, like heroin, like chocolate and hugs, is a drug. It effects the body’s chemistry, producing a marked change in its behavior and physiology. When I was growing up, my parents and grand parents wouldn’t let me drink coffee. Not that I ever had a real burning desire to drink the hot smelly black liquid, but they knew that it wasn’t for me. Of course they also smoked a billion packs a day directly into my face, but who knew what then? The point is, people knew that children didn’t need to be hopped up on the Black Horse.

Why do kids need to be drinking these gigantic cans of straight caffeine and “caffeine-like” ingredients anyway? I personally don’t care if they do, hell, feel free to shoot your kid in the eye ball with a needle full of crank if you want to, I find that it’s entirely none of my business. My question is, why do kids need stimulants? As I understand them children are annoying, destructive bundles of boundless energy and screaming all on their own, without the need of rabbit adrenalin and hummingbird piss, which you do know are what Taurine and Guarana are right?

Of course, just like the reason we don’t have awesome murder toys anymore, most of this report is utterly overblown, manipulated and or fabricated bullshit.

Too many energy drinks will give you the "Van Dammes".
Too many energy drinks will give you the "Van Dammes".

Not to say that some idiots aren’t abusing something to the point of personal harm, but the risks are insanely over blown and manipulated. While they say that the risks of these drinks include everything from heart palpitations and seizures to “sudden death”. They also make sure not to quantify drink related complications of deaths. And the death reports that they do cite are of European teens who either mixed the energy drinks with alcohol (a personal favorite of mine by the way) or who had epileptic conditions that may have increased their risks.

So in the end, what they’re warning people of is not energy drinks, but human stupidity. If you drink enough water, you could die. You could literally drown in your own body. You kidneys fail, you die. From water. If you do too much of anything, it can, and likely will, kill you fucking dead. In a culture of over indulgence that can’t take responsibility for its own actions, everyone has to blame the makers of the things they can’t stop shoving down their eat holes for what it does to them. It’s not Mortimer F. Redbull’s responsibility to make sure you don’t drink too much of his tasty beverage because you broke the thing inside you that tells you you’re done drinking. If you’re going to let your kid drink enough Monster that they begin to hallucinate, then maybe it’s not the fault of the Pepsicola company that you’re a bad parent.

You’re all the reason I can’t buy sharp, cast iron, lead dipped, army man bites to play with in the back yard anymore, and you’re not going to take away my Siezure Sippers now too!