BROKEN SUMMERTIME

Summertime. The time of festivals, fairs and five-dollar drinks. What the fuck? I would never condone what happened at Woodstock ‘99, but I can now sympathize. There are certain things in this world that I find to be cheap by definition. A lunch consisting of a gyro, beverage, and single serving bag of chips is one of them. Why, then, am I asked to pay $12 for this mere pittance of sustenance? The authorities and focus groups worry about crowd safety and sexual assaults at these events. Well take down my report, detective. I’ve just been butt-fucked by the gyro guy. Water should be free, or at the very least affordable, you evil crooks. I really don’t give a shit if it’s from an Alpine spring or the fire hydrant. I’d just like my urine to not in any way resemble maple syrup. Humans require hydration or we will die! I know humanity is a lost concept for you corporate cocksuckers, but it is true. It will remain true no matter how much cash you stick in the politician’s campaign fund, or laws he or she subsequently changes to inflate your bottom line. A one-of-a-kind, official Ozzfest t-shirt is just that: a fucking t-shirt! It is not a jewel-encrusted Bob Mackie original. I love you, Ozzy, I really do. But you can take your $40 official t-shirt and shove it right up your narcotic-addled, stumblin’, bumblin’ ass. I’m a man who has been known to take a sip or two of the hooch. But rather than pay $8 for a tiny Lynchburg Lemonade, just whack me over the head with the $3 per shot bottle. Either way, I’m going to have the same goddamn headache in the morning. The capitalist juggernaut knows no bounds, even when it comes to America’s national pastime. Baseball is a swell game, and best experienced live with the smell of perfectly manicured grass, roasted peanuts, and a light lake breeze coming in off the the rightfield fence. We’ve all seen the commercials, but the only thing that remains priceless is the dumb look on your face as you stare into your empty wallet. Everyman’s game my ass! Every man with a 401k and a fat paycheck, is more like it. I love when the cameraman pans around the field to catch a child napping in the third inning. Isn’t he cute? Fuck no, the little bastard ain’t cute! He’s asleep in the third fucking inning wasting primo box seats! Motherfucker! We’ll all miss the legendary Ted Williams. But not if his fuckwad of a son has his way. In the not-so-distant future, you, the discerning baseball fan, may be able purchase Ted’s DNA. This mainly applies to Boston fans, as this may be their only chance of winning a World Series. So, as the sweltering days of summer escape into fall just remember that nothing is ever free, and the only thing cheap is the redneck bitch in front of you flashing her flapjack, tattooed titties.