The Fightins'

Posts Tagged ‘fuck CBP employees’

Aug
23
2010
Posted by at 5:29 pm ET 43 Comments

This past Sunday, Howdy S. Thompson treated the poor bastards who birthed myself and Mrs. HDYSR? and her parents to their first ever Phillies game. Being the slightly above minimum wage earner and gent that I am, I sprung for Pavilion deck seating. They didn’t give a fuck where we sat, and neither did I. What I really wanted was the fucking Cole Hamels lunch box. I did not receive my fucking lunch box.

The Nationals are the essential AA team (not AA like that stupid shit cockwand Josh Hamilton believes in to cure his public image himself of his problems, but AA minor league baseball). They don’t even qualify as AAA due to the fact that you can see the Nationals twice in one year and not recognize a single player besides Will Ferrell. No one wants to see the fucking Nationals. I’ll watch Betty White deepthroat Larry King before I pay to see the infield power of Ian Desmond and the future Hall of Fame plays of Michael Morse. That leads me to the next point: the fucking elderly.

In an ideal world, we wouldn’t have to deal with these piles of grey clogging up our Shoprites, slowing down our roads, and cockblocking us from getting Cole Hamels lunch boxes. I, personally, wanted a Cole Hamels lunch box because I need something to put my lunch in besides a supermarket bag. Living in North Jersey, I also wanted it to be a personal “fuck you” to all the cocksucking Mets fans and bandwagon Yankees fans around me. Is a lunch box childish? No. It holds a lunch, and shows my fandom of a team. As a man who occasionally rocks a Gengar shirt, I don’t give a fuck, I like the way it looks.

It was also within reason, I believed, to try to get one for Mrs. Howdy S and her parents because they had never been to the Phillies’ park and wanted a little fucking piece of fucking memorabilia for their first fucking fan fucking experience at Citizens fucking Bank Park. But no, some slimy, old, gray-pubed bitch stalwarted us. Fine, it’s an hour before game time and there should be some kids coming in later that would want one. Around the third inning, I found another old cunt who had at least 50 of these lunchboxes. My youthy-looking girlfriend kindly asked for one, and the semen rag denied her. What use is it to hold on to several dozen lunch boxes if no one is coming into the park? Was there going to be a sudden surge of utes halfway through the game?  Tittyfuck me in the ass, no, there wasn’t going to be. Bitch is probably going to put them on eBay within this week and sell them for a profit like the dusty cunt she was. Fuck these glorified WalMart greeters and their high from the base level of power they’re given.

The big issue is that the Phillies have a ton of giveaways, but there are a thousand separate qualifications to get them. Sarge hat for men 15 and older, titty cancer medallion for female fans, Eric Clapton Phillies jersey for parents with SIDS babies, Alyssa Milano’s pussy for…well, that’s for anyone who can throw a baseball.

Kids at baseball games can be a beautiful experience for a young baseball fan, but 90% of the time it’s some moon face retard staring at you the entire game with ice cream all over his face or some loud mouth that screams the most inane and base advice towards the players or a receptacle for puke (Really kid, you just asked for Roy Oswalt to get a home run? Go back to taking pictures of your asshole and posting them on MySpace and liking Gullah Gullah Island on Facebook you worthless piece of shit). Trying to lure children into the stadium with lunch boxes and the Phanatic like a forty year old man with Gushers and Silly Bands on his dick irritates me. Why is it that I, the consumer who spent over $200 on tickets and food and souvenirs cannot be given a lunch box that cost $3 to make? Those Guatemalan babies worked 17 hours that day for a nickel to make those lunch boxes, and I wanted to enjoy one.

I want my fucking lunchbox. Also, tits (FOR US FUCKING ADULTS):

Read more »

Visit The Fightins Store
Friends of the Fightins:

Phila-Centric

R.I.P Harry Kalas