Dirty Harry Callahan was from San Francisco, not Chicago, which means that he was probably rooting for the wrong team. I cut him a wide birth on that one, though, cuz in those days the Giants had Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bonds and both Willies (Mays and McCovey). Sheesh … I mean how could you not root for that lineup? Anyway, Callahan may have been from that fogged-in, hippie-infested (it was the 70s, pal), crime-ridden city, but knew EXACTLY how to eat a hot dog: No friggin’ catchup!
I bring this up because some of you — and you know who you are — obviously were not paying attention to the Cheap Seats dining rules I posted a couple of days ago. Hey … you can do what you want, pal, but if Charlie Trotter was still around and saw you smothering an encased meat product with catchup, he send you to the moon, Alice.
Joe
Unless you’re from another planet (Mets fans, I’m talking to you), you understand that the Cubs have a pretty friggin’ good chance of making the Series this season. We’ve lost Schwarber to a freak accident which ain’t good, but still, outta the billions and billions of stars out there I’m thinking there’s only one or two that are out of alignment. I’d almost be willing to say it’s our destiny to win the last game of the playoffs this year. Almost.
There’s still this very small but nagging thing in the back of my head, though. It’s like when you’re eatin’ a PB&J sammy and you get a raspberry seed stuck between your teeth. It’s delicious, but you can’t fully enjoy it cuz of that stupid seed. And you can’t get it out. It drives me friggin’ nuts. It’s Bartman. I know, I know, there was no sign of him last year, but I can just see him lurking in the shadows … with his mitt.
The missus says I’m like a dog with a bone with this Bartman thing, and that I’m cuttin’ years off my life by letting it stew for so long. She’s right, I know. But then, if the fully loaded barge of encased meat products I’ve eaten, and that cheese sauce on the ball park nachos (it looks like it’s radio active or something) haven’t corked up the old arteries yet, I think I can handle a few more years of pointing the finger at Bartman. I’ll get over it one day. Maybe. But for now, keep your eyes peeled. And if you do see him, please give him the official Bartman Welcome.
Joe
Hey there, hardhats. Welcome to the Joe Sez blog; a place where I get to say whatever the hell I want. You got a problem with something I said? Well get it off your chest, pallie. I welcome that fluff you call chin music. You agree with me? I only got one thing to say to that: Great minds think alike, my friend.
You wanna weigh in on instant replay, or the idiotic trip-to-the-mound clock (This is baseball not football, Manfred), or that sissy Designated Hitter abomination, or if there are corn dogs should there be corn brats (no) … then you’ve come to the right place. Just keep it reasonably clean so the Little Leaguers’ moms don’t have a friggin’ cow. Or sue my ass.
Joe
