It’s a curse these mobile phones. They enable normally (or at least one can hope) mild-mannered considerate people to become knuckle-dragging mega dopes at the push of a button.
A subset of these slathering droolsacks has been proliferating for years, namely those that find themselves with their phones at televised sporting events, wherein they’re in the background somewhere but will inevitably call friends or family from their seats and tell them to turn on the television, upon which they will then gesture and goof and wave because golly gee hell puppies THEY ARE ON TV!
“Can you see us?” they yell into their mobile devices while doing any variation of movements that make them only look spastically lame to the rest of us non-cromags just trying to watch the game. And the persons they’re yelling at don’t help matters because instead of saying something like “Gah, you look like just about the biggest idiot in the world, why don’t you sit down and watch the fucking game like you went there to do in the first place!?” they say something like “Ha ha ha HA HA HA. Yeah. I see you! Ha ha ha HA HA HA.” This actually eggs the phonies on to gesture larger and more emphatically.
I’m sure this particular breed of numbskull can be found at major sporting venues all over the world, but for me nowhere are these stoopid lame asses so evident then in the seats behind homeplate at Dodger Stadium. But it didn’t used to be like this. Before the McCourts came to town and reconfigured the rows to be even more elite and all right up in behind the plate umpire, the seating behind homebase was waaaaaaaaay back. And the seats closest to the field were actually below ground level so at most you could only see the heads of those fans and they usually belonged to people reeaally intent on what was going on out in the field not in their “fave five.”
Nowadays, it seems to be the rare broadcast that doesn’t attract these fame-whoring moths to the camera light pointed at them, and that was just such the case last night during the ninth inning of NLCS Game No. 3 between the Dodgers and the Phillies.
I caught sight of them right away with closer Broxton on the mound with none out trying to do no harm to the Dodgers five-run lead and seal the win. There they are standing and saluting and not even giving a crap as Broxton gets set to deliver a pitch.
They could be brothers but my guess is they’re father and son, so let’s call them Mr. McDickinhead and his boy Junior whose nickname is Pellet because back when he was 7 he managed to shoot himself in the ass with a BB gun — no easy feat, let me tell you!.
On the other side of the jump awaits a series of annotated low res stills of them getting their jerk on before getting their just desserts.
Note in the close-up below (sorry, no high-def TV for us yet), both have phones stuck to their ears and really silly grins on their faces. Doof for some reason thinks the camera is in the Dodger bullpen:
In this next post, a matronly usher has come over behind them and scolded them for being the very personification of all that is wrong with society. If my lip reading skills haven’t failed me, I believe she told them that she’s seen bacteria with higher IQs. Faux-shamed they sit down and pretend to be normal people on cell phones, but really they’re telling whoever’s listening to hold on a sec until grandma bails:
Sure enough, the minute she’s gone, Pops McDickenhead is back confirming with the crazy waving that he is entirely a retard:
Not to be outdone, Junior McDickinhead joins in with the gesticulating, too. Gee, isn’t this fun, dad? Sure is, Pellet!
But dang it if their insatiable need to be total embarrassments to the Dodgers as an organization and to humans as a race doesn’t draw the attention of another usher, who wastes no time curmudgeonly confronting the braintrust and challenging them to produce proof they belong in the seats they are currentlyÂ occupying. Note how the phones never leave their ears. Even as theyÂ pretend to search for the stubs we all know they don’t have because the douchebag section is waaaaaay out of the camera frame.
“Oh, uh, gee dad. Do you happen to have our tickets? I can’t seem to find mine and my pants are all wet from wetting myself in glee at being on TV?”
“Hmmm, son. No, lemme see if I’m using them as a bookmark in my abridged copy of “Inbreeding For Dummies” that your Uncle Fuck — I mean Chuck– wrote. Nope, not there either. Well I’ll be Pellet I think we’re screwed!”
This is followed by the usher inviting them to return to wherever the seats were that they originally occupied before falsely thinking they’d be all slick and sneaky and stealthy only to then draw attention to themselves from outerfuckingspace.
I have it from a reliable source that the usher actually said was: “Get the fuck out of here now before I have your asses arrested for failing to impersonate decent human folk!”
And like poof, they disappeared.
Order was restored. Justice triumphed and the game continued, unabated to the last out with the score unchanged.