There are rare times in Homer’s day that forces him to drift among the commoners and partake in meals that fall well below the fine dining fare he typically enjoys. Recently, I treated Camden Karen to a celebratory “crab free for a year” meal at Ruths Criss Steakhouse and rather than order the soft shell crab and double mashed, she busts out the 19 ounce New York strip.
For all of you regular readers, you have come to know that my fine little lady is 12 incisors short of a baker’s dozen in the old chopper department. And while the slab of beef served to her by the finest eatery known to man was as tender as can be, for my toothless fair lady it turned into the gummy bear from hell. We finished in three days, four hours and five Heimlich maneuvers. You can see the results on the wall. They call it the Camden Karen Chunk Wall of Shame.
But I digressed! As I meanandered to the counter of the local pizza shop I was greeted by a local girl with eyes bluer than the water at San Juan Capistrano. Ahhhh…San Juan Capistrano, California, where Homer met a Latin dream by the name of Pedrana. I will never forget that amazing weekend. Oh, wait…..that actually turned out to be Pedro, crap, don’t ask Homer why I took a weekend to figure that out! Event the Plate can hit a foul ball every once in awhile.
I had a sneaky feeling that ice blue had a inkling she was in the presence of greatness but couldn’t put her finger on it (what ever gives the ladies the idea they can’t put their finger on it?) as to who I may be. While we discussed the various culinary delights of the middle class, I noticed that she was sporting a tattoo representing our Philles! Wow! That can’t be true? My chicks when I get to the point of tattoo discovery end up having a few that say things such as “My Man Rides a Harley to Satan’s House…With Me on the Back!” Yikes!
When I told her I dabble in penmanship regarding all things Phillies, she informed me of an incident that occurred during a recent game in which a fan allegedly vomited on a father and daughter who were Nationals fans. Well, this certainly burned in my stomach for the rest of the afternoon (as did the middle class culinary fare to which the Plate is unaccustomed) and when I confirmed the story to be more than rumors, I had to speak out.
I felt an urgent need to procure one pool skimmer to skim the small amount of scum fans from the huge pool of intelligent, knowledgeable and courteous fans that visit The Bank on a regular basis. When I am done skimming, I may just take my skimmer and give Camden Karen a nice smack on the old butt just for kicks! No Charge! That would be after an evening of swatting lightning bugs, of course. Homer never gets away from multi tasking when possible!
This is a very severe blotch again on 99% of fans in this city. The national media will grab this and make it the “typical Philadelphia fan.” Now I should be clear here. You come into our house wearing the garb of an opposition, you can and should be prepared to endure inning after inning of verbal mayhem. But there is a way to disseminate proper hatred for the opposition without the use of vulgarities and anything nearing a physical attack is just pathetic and sick. This is also VERY uncommon at the Bank.
Eagles fans, on the other hand, almost seem to take pride in their abuse of apposing fans. Then again, from a bunch of people who wash their hands in urinals (I assume such a thing since they pee in sinks), nothing really surprises me there. “Hey, wanna go to the game on Sunday?” “Hmmm, do ya think they will sell balloons that we can suck the gas out of to get us stoned?” Homer is so glad he has the 61 inch hi-def so he can stay far away from those freaks of nature.
Flyers fans demonstrate the best abuse in sports. A Rangers jersey in The Center is kinda like sex in church. While still good, you always feel like you’re being watched. Flyers fans can dish it out with the best of them and with the very rare exception, it’s all in good, clean fun.
Sixers fans are not so good. Actually, I believe two Nets fans were actually killed recently while attending a Sixer’s game. Hold while I research that story… Oh, my bad, it turns out they were the only two fans in the building for that game, thought they saw a ghost and died of heart attacks.
We all know that fan abuse comes from the almighty bottle(s) of beer consumed in the stadiums. Now one Mr. Plate, who by the way has never even tasted the fruity passions of any alcohol has no idea why all of these degenerates feel the need to drink to excess at sporting events, but they do it constantly. I know the jackhammer dudes will say that a cold beer and a ball game is pure Americana. I say a babe and a, well, a babe is all I can come up with that to me is pure Americana. I think all of you who feel the need to drink to excess need to head to your local Walmart stomping ground and while your significant other with cleavage coming from fourteen different parts of her tank top is shoppin for those super sexy pants with that loop that wraps around the foot while eating whatever the hell you people eat from the Walmart restaurant bar and grill you need to think about what jackasses you are making out of yourselves.
Then, and maybe then you will realize that you are making a stain on the reputation of the City, the fans, and one of the greatest baseball teams to grace not only this city, but this Nation in a long, long time.
And for those who go to the extreme like the alleged perpetrator at a recent ball game. I have made an appointment at my local veterinarian for euthanasia for you at 10 am next Thurdsday. For you sir, there is no help and I wish you all the best with my ex girlfriend and her beau on the back of that cycle.