Jeff Wysaski
“Look at these seats!” I said with excitement. “Right behind the dugout! How cool is that?” “Yeah,” Nancy said. “They’re pretty great.” “Way better than our seats way up here, that’s for sure!” I replied as I pulled out my binoculars so I could get a better view of those wicked awesome seats.
“Mustard and relish?” Nancy complained. “Why’d you have to put all these extra toppings on?” “Because that’s how I like my nachos,” I replied.
“BOO! BOO!” I began to chant after the ump called strike three. “Oh, honey. Stop that. No one wants to hear that right now,” Nancy said, embarrassed. “And for God’s sake, stop cutting holes in my sheets!” she shouted as she pulled my funny ghost costume off my head and threw it under the seat.
“90 miles per hour! That’s pretty fast!” I said, turning to show the radar detector to the man next to me. “Okay, now let’s do you!” I continued, dropping the radar detector into his urinal so I could compare the speed of his stream to mine.
“No, we’ve got hitting! Our hitting is great! What we need is pitching,” I yelled back at the trashcan before spilling my beer and falling to the ground.
“Wow! I can’t believe I’m shaking hands with a three-time Golden Glove winner,” I said in awe as I looked up at my hero. “How’d you get on the field?” he replied as the security guards tackled me and covered my naked body with a towel.
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