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Draft Dodging
Mar. 29th, 2010 02:59 amAlright, this is going to sound stupid to virtually everyone, because you don't know baseball and are thus lesser beings, or because you do and I'm just going weird. See, I like fantasy baseball. I don't mean 'fantasy' baseball where if you draw a walk, Felicia Day blows you once you reach first (although I have considered said scenario and I totally blame Ramiel for it. Or Doqz. Weedy doctor type bastard he is).
No, I mean Fantasy Baseball, where men get together and argue about who has a better on-base percentage in a 1-2 count and that translates into a statistical probability of more runs. Yes, this is the adult version of Warhammer 30K, but instead of Orges inside battlearmor, we have David Wright and a knockwurst strapped to his cup pointing out that in September last year, he led the Mets in eighth inning doubles.
This is where the alchemists of SABRmetrics get together and completely ponce the thing up every year. I stride into this mess because I like it and it forces me to vaguely pay attention to the National League, which for most of my life ignored like the fat kid waiting to be picked for dodgeball. Screw you, fatty, unless you're mobile cover, you have no use for me.
I was once beaten senseless on a dodgeball court.
Regardless, I have drafted, and that shriveled nut of a heart that beats in my chest when it isn't out to ruin your life or date rape you or the other hundred atrocities I apparently do when I'm not bound to my X-Box according to reports and, you know, my 'friends', swells when Ihave a chance to swing carefully hedged and backed up balls with the baseball fandom. Unfortunately, they possess slightly less social skills than comic fandom, which leaves them largely between a ham sandwich and a fungo bat in terms of skills mingling with the public. Which suits me, considering that I come from a world where nine out of ten people asked consider fucking your twin in the ass or diddling your student to be 'yummy'.
The problem is that the fandoms blur. Where I obsess over a player for his ability to strike out batters in the ninth with an above average splitter, the casual fandom wanderer looks at it as an excuse to show how Johnny Damon and Derek Jeter spend all their time swinging their bats at each other.
In the bum.
I mean, like, having sex in the bum.
No, really, not even on the on-deck circle, but going for the fences in an ejaculation kind of way.
Which, fortunately, isn't possible at the new Citifield, making a lot of Santana fans unhappy.
Still, I see a slippery slope there, where these people realize that there is a history to baseball. Well over a hundred and thirty years. And someone is going to write Sandy Koufax slash. At which point I will go to jail for travelling across the US to beat someone to death with a steel pipe. Seriously, a steel pipe. Right in the brain pan.
So, in short, I have drafted and if you use that to make Sandy Koufax gay, I will fuck you up sideways.
...
...
...
You know, years ago, I had content...
No, I mean Fantasy Baseball, where men get together and argue about who has a better on-base percentage in a 1-2 count and that translates into a statistical probability of more runs. Yes, this is the adult version of Warhammer 30K, but instead of Orges inside battlearmor, we have David Wright and a knockwurst strapped to his cup pointing out that in September last year, he led the Mets in eighth inning doubles.
This is where the alchemists of SABRmetrics get together and completely ponce the thing up every year. I stride into this mess because I like it and it forces me to vaguely pay attention to the National League, which for most of my life ignored like the fat kid waiting to be picked for dodgeball. Screw you, fatty, unless you're mobile cover, you have no use for me.
I was once beaten senseless on a dodgeball court.
Regardless, I have drafted, and that shriveled nut of a heart that beats in my chest when it isn't out to ruin your life or date rape you or the other hundred atrocities I apparently do when I'm not bound to my X-Box according to reports and, you know, my 'friends', swells when Ihave a chance to swing carefully hedged and backed up balls with the baseball fandom. Unfortunately, they possess slightly less social skills than comic fandom, which leaves them largely between a ham sandwich and a fungo bat in terms of skills mingling with the public. Which suits me, considering that I come from a world where nine out of ten people asked consider fucking your twin in the ass or diddling your student to be 'yummy'.
The problem is that the fandoms blur. Where I obsess over a player for his ability to strike out batters in the ninth with an above average splitter, the casual fandom wanderer looks at it as an excuse to show how Johnny Damon and Derek Jeter spend all their time swinging their bats at each other.
In the bum.
I mean, like, having sex in the bum.
No, really, not even on the on-deck circle, but going for the fences in an ejaculation kind of way.
Which, fortunately, isn't possible at the new Citifield, making a lot of Santana fans unhappy.
Still, I see a slippery slope there, where these people realize that there is a history to baseball. Well over a hundred and thirty years. And someone is going to write Sandy Koufax slash. At which point I will go to jail for travelling across the US to beat someone to death with a steel pipe. Seriously, a steel pipe. Right in the brain pan.
So, in short, I have drafted and if you use that to make Sandy Koufax gay, I will fuck you up sideways.
...
...
...
You know, years ago, I had content...
