What your view of sports and life would be if you had too many concussions
For those of you that didn’t know, I hate the Los Angeles Dodgers. The single moment in my life that produced nausea so violent (ugghhh…fighting urge now) that it would have given Mr. Creosote a bariatric case of vomit-envy is the (urrghhhh…) is the Kirk Gibson homer in the 1988 World Series. You remember…Game One, bottom of the 9th, 2 outs, runner on 1st. The ambulance backs up to the plate, spills Gibson into the lefty batter’s box, where he uses his bat and the freshly-consumed blood of a young boy to prop himself up, (ughhhhh…) runs the count full…and then it happened.
Thanks to ESPN and its plethora of spawns, I can relive that moment anytime I need. You can use this too. Let’s say you find yourself in one of the following barfing-required moments; you are dating a supermodel who feels the need to purge after her belly-busting meal of Tic-Tacs and heroin; the neighbor kid just ate a full bottle of Flintstone’s vitamins, or you just want your boss to see how sick you really are, just cue up that tape and keep a bucket at the ready.
It was while I was watching my supermodel girlfriend heaving that the idea occurred to me that the Dodgers can always find ways to make me sick. For example, remember when the Anti-Christ himself was pushing one of those noxious diet concoctions? Regardless of whether the idea is to starve you with some sort of hydrated pool-cue chalk with the nutritional value of dishwater or to make sure you forcibly eject any contents of your digestive tract in the most audible and liquefied manner possible, the sons of Chavez Ravine have an endless supply of ways to guarantee you never digest a meal again.
Chef Devon White
Sure, Devon was an Angel before he ended up on the Dark Side, but that food has Dodger fans written all over it, meaning it’s ethnic, spiced just this side of plutonium, and certain to leave an oddly-colored stain in the lining of your pants. This is a stark comparison from the “mayonaisse sandwiches on Wonder bread” sort of pale blandness that is the norm of Orange County.
The Dodgers, like several other clubs, think the gastronomic consumer can be tricked by giving a catchy name to what is essentially a cylinder packed with ground beaks, claws, and rectums. The amazing part was that they got away with this even in the days before the Dodger Stadium crowd became nothing but 40,000 Tecate-swilling illegal aliens and tourists about to get rolled more diverse.
And the Just Plain Disturbing
Three words: Gangbangers bathing together.
Apparently continuing the “meat/buns” theme of the Dodger Dog…