An open apology

I must take a minute to openly apologize to those in the general vicinity of Section 130, Row B, Seats 15 and 16, at the Durham Bulls minor league baseball game on Saturday night. Especially to the guy in the "Quite-a-bit-too-short-shorts" immediately next to me who switched places with his buddy after you went to get beers (yeah, I noticed), but not the lady immediately behind me who kept screaming in my ear every time your kid blatantly stepped on your hand after you repeatedly told her not to. In my opinion, you need to step up and start disciplining your kids. Kids these days need you to be a parent, not a friend. Frankly, I wouldn't let my friend step on my hand either, but that is neither here nor there.

You guys probably came for a couple hours of America's past time and the free fireworks after the game, but ended up getting way more than you bargained for, or ever deserved. I would like to be able to say that it wasn't my fault, but the truth of it is, my gastro-intestinal issues are well documented. I live my life like a big game of tag. Those places with reasonably sanitary restroom facilities are "base" and I am safe there. Everywhere else I am in danger of getting "tagged."

I wish I could blame it on the chicken wings I ate immediately before the game, but honestly the fireworks were going off well before the hot sauce started flowing. In fact, I was hoping the hot wings would calm the raging beast. That should tell you the condition I was in, both mentally and physically. When has a semi-toxic blend of vinegar and chilies ever calmed anything? Not to mention the blue cheese. For a lactose intolerant, fermenting cheese probably doesn't make it more easily digested. So instead of gently rocking my digestive system into a semi-comatose state of bliss, the wings and blue cheese combined forces with whatever set me off to begin with and created what can only be described as a weapon of mass destruction.

At first it was a relief. If you have never experienced the joy of finding out that all the pressure and impending doom brewing in you is in fact neither a solid nor a liquid, but can be discreetly released into the atmosphere without climbing over everyone down the row and without wondering what microscopic bugs are crawling on the seat you are about to place your bare butt on, then you don't know happiness. Seconds later, however, the tables were turned. With the shock and awe of a conquering military force my (and I can only assume those around me had a similar experience) nasal passages were bombarded with eye watering, eyebrow singeing, gag inducing, funk. I've seen people shed less tears after being pepper-sprayed. And that was just the beginning. Over the next two and a half hours kids in the area were repeatedly checked for dirty diapers or soiled britches. Bottoms of shoes were checked to see what had been stepped in. By the eighth inning spirits were low. The home team was down by double digits and people just couldn't handle much more of the cloud of stench that was hovering over the area like a blimp at the Superbowl. Luckily, by this time my body was starting to shut down for the night and the assault withdrew allowing us watch the Bulls get hammered without nausea. We finished the night with a brilliant display of fireworks, but for those in section 130, the display of bright explosions and burning gasses had been going all night.

And for that, I apologize.