Because you can go to the Braves website or ESPN and get the real play-by-play, I'm going to give you the I-was-there-sitting-in-the-stands-with-the-Atlanta-smog-and-100 degree heat-play-by-play.
My company gets Braves tickets every year for those who want to go at no cost to employees or their families. My brother wanted to come this past weekend, and that was when our company game was scheduled, so I begged for another ticket. Then I find out his best friend was planning to come. Um, Bubby, were you planning on mentioning that to me? Seeing as it is my house and my food and my water and my electricity you little assholes are using. And it is my company that is giving these tickets to us. So, I heard through the grapevine that we had a metric-shit-ton of extra tickets, and, being the great big sister that I am, I begged for one more. So, here we are--Travis, and me, and my brother, and his best friend--all going to the game.
We leave the house at like 3 PM to take Pepe to Momma #2 (no, not Poopoo Mom, Travis' mom) because he had, like, 7 shots that morning, and he can't be left alone after those shots since he might swell up and die. (Chihuahua's are very prone to vaccine reactions.) We drop him off, and head to Sonny's to eat dinner. (We had a coupon for $5 off the "Feast for Four", in which you get sliced pork, sliced beef, BBQ chicken, and ribs, three sides, garlic bread, and four drinks for $34. So, we got it for $29. Pretty good if you ask me...) We left Sonny's around 5PM to head for the game. We wanted to get there a little early, get parked, and see if there was anything cool going on pre-game, since we never get there early enough to see.
But, then, we hit a snag, as we always, inevitably do. There was construction on I-75 going into the city. Shit. I fucking hate Atlanta. There is construction on every single damned road in the metro-area 24 hours a day 7 days a week every single week of the ever-lovin' year! And of course it is always where we need to go. So, after going about 2 miles in 30 minutes, we got off the interstate and headed for the surface streets with Mom on Mapquest. Now, Atlanta is renowned for changing the names of its streets on a daily basis, and, apparently, none of the mapmakers have caught on to the concept yet. So, here we are without the GPS (left the damn thing at home because we "knew" where we were going!) and Mom with the defunct-since-yesterday maps trying to find a familiar road. We finally decide that Ralph David Abernathy is the Georgia Avenue Mom is talking about, and we start seeing little signs that say "Turner Field". Now, to you assholes that put up these tiny little signs behind ENORMOUS bushes and trees, you should be tied to the bumper of a Pinto and driven around Atlanta at rush-hour. That's the kind of punishment you deserve for making those damned signs so small and so hidden you can't see them unless you are making an illegal U-turn and hitting the curb while 57 cars honk at you and your impending doom.
So, once we finally get on Abernathy going the right way, we cap a hill, and there it is: Turner Field. I swear I heard the angels going "ahhhhhh" it was such a magnificent sight after the 15 minute ride that took us 2 shittastic hours. We immediately parked. I think Travis sensed that the blood vessel in my forehead was about to burst, and my massive coronary was not far behind. Did I mention I hate traffic?
And, there we are, off to the races. We get inside and rush to our seats. Thank God I took a piss at Sonny's, since I had two huge glasses of their pink lemonade, and then I sat in a car for two hours just to rush to another seat without finding a bathroom. I, amazingly, made it, like, 7 hours without taking a leak. I think that's a record for me.
We sit down, and all of the people from the other office (in Alabama) are already there. They got to take a nice cozy chartered bus. The only person not there yet was from my office in Atlanta. Funny, huh? And, like clockwork, my brother proceeds to curse like a sailor. Yes, my dears, it runs in the family. So, I have to whack him upside the head, and remind him that I am, for all intents and purposes, at work, and to shut the hell up.
Finally, I can enjoy the game, or so I think. Then, Mr. and Mrs. I-Let-My-Shithead-Child-Run-Wild-In-Public sit down behind me. Now, I understand children don't enjoy sitting for three hours at a professional sporting event. So, leave the little shits at home! I got pretty sick of getting hit in the head or shoulder, having Daddy save me from impending blows by sippy-cups, toys, or programs, and listening to Mommy say "Stop that." "Sit down." "I'm a raging retard.", so I moved to the opposite end of TrashCan, TReed, and Bubby (as they'd been for bowling the night before). Finally, some peace. And, I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. My-Child-Is-Perfect were pissed at me for moving and so obviously telling their little angel "fuck you" (in a few less words, of course, i.e., no words) because I was just such a bitch for not liking children. For the record, I like children just fine--when children (or adults that act like them) are not raising them. Got it?
But, the game was pretty boring, and talk soon became more entertaining, unfortunately. Because my brother and his best friend spent the better part of the day being lazy and worthless as they are so apt to do, Chappelle's Show on DVD became the topic of conversation. (I made the mistake of not having cable with a couple of shitheads at my house, and all there was to watch was the "Chappelle's Show" Box Set I got Travis for Christmas.) So, of course, the evening turned to Lil Jon talking to Lil Jon and was fraught with "What?"s and "Yeah"s and "OK"s. There were even a few "Ha ha ha"s in a deep voice and some "Pardon me madame"s in the same deep voice. (See below.)
My company gets Braves tickets every year for those who want to go at no cost to employees or their families. My brother wanted to come this past weekend, and that was when our company game was scheduled, so I begged for another ticket. Then I find out his best friend was planning to come. Um, Bubby, were you planning on mentioning that to me? Seeing as it is my house and my food and my water and my electricity you little assholes are using. And it is my company that is giving these tickets to us. So, I heard through the grapevine that we had a metric-shit-ton of extra tickets, and, being the great big sister that I am, I begged for one more. So, here we are--Travis, and me, and my brother, and his best friend--all going to the game.
We leave the house at like 3 PM to take Pepe to Momma #2 (no, not Poopoo Mom, Travis' mom) because he had, like, 7 shots that morning, and he can't be left alone after those shots since he might swell up and die. (Chihuahua's are very prone to vaccine reactions.) We drop him off, and head to Sonny's to eat dinner. (We had a coupon for $5 off the "Feast for Four", in which you get sliced pork, sliced beef, BBQ chicken, and ribs, three sides, garlic bread, and four drinks for $34. So, we got it for $29. Pretty good if you ask me...) We left Sonny's around 5PM to head for the game. We wanted to get there a little early, get parked, and see if there was anything cool going on pre-game, since we never get there early enough to see.
But, then, we hit a snag, as we always, inevitably do. There was construction on I-75 going into the city. Shit. I fucking hate Atlanta. There is construction on every single damned road in the metro-area 24 hours a day 7 days a week every single week of the ever-lovin' year! And of course it is always where we need to go. So, after going about 2 miles in 30 minutes, we got off the interstate and headed for the surface streets with Mom on Mapquest. Now, Atlanta is renowned for changing the names of its streets on a daily basis, and, apparently, none of the mapmakers have caught on to the concept yet. So, here we are without the GPS (left the damn thing at home because we "knew" where we were going!) and Mom with the defunct-since-yesterday maps trying to find a familiar road. We finally decide that Ralph David Abernathy is the Georgia Avenue Mom is talking about, and we start seeing little signs that say "Turner Field". Now, to you assholes that put up these tiny little signs behind ENORMOUS bushes and trees, you should be tied to the bumper of a Pinto and driven around Atlanta at rush-hour. That's the kind of punishment you deserve for making those damned signs so small and so hidden you can't see them unless you are making an illegal U-turn and hitting the curb while 57 cars honk at you and your impending doom.
So, once we finally get on Abernathy going the right way, we cap a hill, and there it is: Turner Field. I swear I heard the angels going "ahhhhhh" it was such a magnificent sight after the 15 minute ride that took us 2 shittastic hours. We immediately parked. I think Travis sensed that the blood vessel in my forehead was about to burst, and my massive coronary was not far behind. Did I mention I hate traffic?
And, there we are, off to the races. We get inside and rush to our seats. Thank God I took a piss at Sonny's, since I had two huge glasses of their pink lemonade, and then I sat in a car for two hours just to rush to another seat without finding a bathroom. I, amazingly, made it, like, 7 hours without taking a leak. I think that's a record for me.
We sit down, and all of the people from the other office (in Alabama) are already there. They got to take a nice cozy chartered bus. The only person not there yet was from my office in Atlanta. Funny, huh? And, like clockwork, my brother proceeds to curse like a sailor. Yes, my dears, it runs in the family. So, I have to whack him upside the head, and remind him that I am, for all intents and purposes, at work, and to shut the hell up.
Finally, I can enjoy the game, or so I think. Then, Mr. and Mrs. I-Let-My-Shithead-Child-Run-Wild-In-Public sit down behind me. Now, I understand children don't enjoy sitting for three hours at a professional sporting event. So, leave the little shits at home! I got pretty sick of getting hit in the head or shoulder, having Daddy save me from impending blows by sippy-cups, toys, or programs, and listening to Mommy say "Stop that." "Sit down." "I'm a raging retard.", so I moved to the opposite end of TrashCan, TReed, and Bubby (as they'd been for bowling the night before). Finally, some peace. And, I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. My-Child-Is-Perfect were pissed at me for moving and so obviously telling their little angel "fuck you" (in a few less words, of course, i.e., no words) because I was just such a bitch for not liking children. For the record, I like children just fine--when children (or adults that act like them) are not raising them. Got it?
But, the game was pretty boring, and talk soon became more entertaining, unfortunately. Because my brother and his best friend spent the better part of the day being lazy and worthless as they are so apt to do, Chappelle's Show on DVD became the topic of conversation. (I made the mistake of not having cable with a couple of shitheads at my house, and all there was to watch was the "Chappelle's Show" Box Set I got Travis for Christmas.) So, of course, the evening turned to Lil Jon talking to Lil Jon and was fraught with "What?"s and "Yeah"s and "OK"s. There were even a few "Ha ha ha"s in a deep voice and some "Pardon me madame"s in the same deep voice. (See below.)
And, even though the Atlanta smog looked like the dust from a nuclear fallout, and the temperature was somewhere around hell, it made for an entertaining evening. I will say, though, that when I go back in September, I'll be taking my Magellan, with traffic reports.
Final Score: 2-8 Washington
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