Membership Has Its Privileges

The drive across Texas is a long and boring one. The distance between El Paso and Austin is about one hundred miles more than the distance between Sacramento and San Diego. I had to make that drive with a buddy of mine twice in three days for a meeting with a bunch of douche bags. I'm not a big fan of driving long distances, but I'm also not a big fan of paying speeding tickets or dying. So I set the cruise control at the speed limit + 4 mph. Yeah, I'm a pussy like that, but whatev.

My buddy Patrick, on the other hand, he's a fucking speed demon. He'll set he cruise control at the speed limit + 15 mph. Taking sharp curves at 90 mph doesn't seem to bother him one bit. He'll tailgate cars in the fast lane until they move out of his way. And tickets? Fuck 'em.

So it didn't surprise me when he got pulled over within the first two hours of our little journey. Fortunately, the cop let us go without so much as a stern talking to. And he was almost apologetic for pulling us over. I could have been sniffing cocaine with two hookers over in the passenger's seat and this pig wouldn't have even noticed. Or cared.

This was pretty much the same case the two other times Patrick got pulled over.

"Let me just write you up a warning and you can be on your way."

--Officer Dumbfuck

So why didn't Patrick get a ticket any of the three times he got pulled over? Because he's one of "them." He's become quite the expert at strategically opening his wallet so that a traffic officer can conveniently notice his El Paso Police Department badge.




This should bother me a bit, but it doesn't. Sure, we wouldn't have gotten off so lightly if that were me driving. But I don't really have a problem with cops giving each other those professional courtesies. It happens everywhere. If there's one lesson I learned from my dear old dad growing up, it's that life isn't fair. And it's true. Just ask the Republicans.

With that in mind, I think Ken Macha should really consider advertising his ineptitude. If he wore one of those sandwich billboards proclaiming to the world that he was a moron, I'd probably be more forgiving, and more importantly, opposing managers might cut him some slack.

If opposing managers knew that they weren't playing on a level playing field with Macha, surely they'd take it a little easy on our lovable loser. Maybe instead of just exchanging line-ups, they'd hand over every bit of vital information.

"Hey, Mach. Here's my line-up. And here's my list of reserves. And here's my signs. If you want to steal 'em, don't worry about it. Oh, and if we're in a close game late and you bring in Rincon, I'm going to bring in LeCroy. And he crushes fastballs, so you might want to work him away with off-speed junk. If you need help with anything else that comes up, just give me a ring. Here's my cell phone number"

--Ron Gardenhire

Do you know why basketball referees don't call traveling on five-year-olds? Or why a down syndrome child gets away with eating ice cream with his hands? Or why I don't get too upset with my dog when he licks his own dick? Because none of them know any better. And everyone knows it.

Macha's appearance is very deceiving. He doesn't look all that retarded, but he obviously is. All he has to do is come clean about his short-comings. Baseball is a gentleman's game and limitless professional courtesies would surely come Macha's way if he just took my advice.

So the next time Macha tried to bring in Keiichi fucking Yabu to face Manny Ramirez with the bases loaded, Terry Francona would surely run out, stop him and call for Huston Street. That'd just make things a whole lot easier for everyone.