Jack McKeon, the 80-year-old interim manager of the Florida Marlins, is Riptide's interim semiregular columnist. This week's topic: the San Francisco Giants.
I was on the bullpen phone with Corny the other day when he reminded me that San Francisco is coming to town. I just about barfed my chaw all over Emilio Bonifacio, bless his heart. I might seem the liberal type. But I do believe that San Francisco's Golden Gate is really a gate to Hell.
I don't think it's extreme to suggest that after that so-called team of swishers, beatniks, and mongoloids visited the White House this year, Obama should have burned the place to the ground, called American society a loss, and restarted the government out of a log-cabin compound in Virginia.
That's what FDR would have done. But we all know Obama is no FDR.
As FDR once said, "I have polio."
It's not the Orientals or the fog that has turned my ire against San Francisco. I find both to have mystic qualities, and when combined, and enhanced by a couple of puffs of opium, to be downright enchanting. It's not even the town's damn hills, although I do find the hill -- and it's namby-pamby cousin the knoll -- to be a weak-willed version of a mountain.
No, it's this damn television program the boys were watching in the clubhouse during a rain delay the other day. Have you seen it?
Twitter! Get over here and put in one of those things so that these fellows can view this godforsaken smut on their computers. Here it is.
Why would a man pull a thong out of his pants? Why would a baseball team hire a hippie named "the Freak" to do anything besides launder jockstraps? Who is that poor halfwit in the beard and the leather outfits, and why is he not chained to a boulder in a sanatorium rec yard somewhere?
After watching a few minutes of that evil television program, I locked myself in my coach's office, listened to a few spins of my favorite Frankie Valli record, and drank whiskey out of a boot. Then the world made sense again.
This might be the longest three-game series of my life.
I do enjoy one product of San Francisco. The clubhouse attendants keep a few boxes of Rice-a-Roni around the pantry. Sometimes they try to serve me some in a dish, and I tell them: "Dammit, Ed, save your plate. Pour it right into my hat. It's presalted."
Then I eat that mildly spiced rice out of my hat and wonder where the hell this world went wrong.
Rice-a-Roni, this one was free. If you want to turn this into an endorsement deal, call the stadium.
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How do you put a little blue connection to this crap?