A Very Vicarious Opening Day


A disheveled creature emerges from the maws of his mother's basement struggling against a lack of energy caused by acute Vitamin D deficiency as he curses the U.S. food industry for misleading its consumers due to the added weight he attributes to heavy consumption of Vegetarian Hot Pockets. Without the sugar hidden within the 6 pack of tallboy Mountain Dew's he guzzled at 4 AM the trek up the flight of stairs would have been far too difficult for him to endure. He blows the dust off his throne of infallibility at the kitchen table and punches his little brother into the defunct farm kitchen tools hanging from the plaid wallpaper that were hung by his father in the happy memory of his toddlerhood far prior to the onset of the mood swings and reclusiveness of his early 20's.

"This cereal is fucking stale," he shouted at the wall.

The early spring sun beats through his little brother's handprints on the French-door, immediately resulting in a galaxy of fresh freckles. His body smells of sewage. His mother walks in with a laundry basket full of his soiled underpants.

"And to what do we owe this pleasure? You know you still have unopened Christmas presents? The last time we saw you, you greedily shuffled downstairs with your videogame."

"Its more than just a videogame Mom! It is my life's work. This cereal is fucking stale."

"Then go get a job and you can buy your own cereal. Why are you awake?"

"It's Opening Day and I'm going to meet my internet friends at the ballpark."

"I'm sure you know the internet is dangerous, I don't like you taking the train to go meet strangers in the city."

"They're not strangers! They're my friends! Everything I know is because of them. It's not like you ever cared about me."

"Get, a, job."

"I sent out 50 resumes last night, I'll follow-up on those emails tomorrow when I wake up in the morning, about three, in the afternoon."

"Right, how did you get a ticket, you don't have any money?"

"Some old piece of shit bought me one, he is my friend. I'll just get drunk on the train."


"I only said that to see if you were even listening to me. This cereal is fucking stale."

"Where did you pick up that kind of language?"

"I learned it from watching you, Mom!"

His little brother marches past like a drum major, repeating incessantly, "Fucking fuck, fuck, fuckstick, fuckle fucker fucks."

He hadn't been to the ballpark since his father had passed away several years ago and he had totally given up baseball as an interest until it became cool for nerds to like it again because of the onset of advanced statistics. Sabermetrics was an obvious progression in skills following his probation for hacking into the DoD intranet in an effort to intercept nuclear missile launch codes.

He still hadn't given up the dream of shooting up the elementary school his brother currently attends with the AR-15 his father had bequeathed to him in his will but his extended magazine was still in the mail, if only he had the money for Amazon Prime he may have received it sooner.

Sitting on the train, sipping on a bottle of Jack Daniels he had bought with his little brother's life savings, he squinted out the window at the cruel world rushing by him.

"This world is fucking stale," he thought, "I'm sick of the world, it sucks. The White Sox are going to suck too, the Tigers are way better. What is there to live for?" he pondered, "Maybe if I complain enough God will start existing and listen to my wants and needs. I'm going to prove to the people at the meth-up that the Sox have no chance."

Across the aisle two homosexuals were holding hands with their adopted child and it filled him with rage. If only he had the chance at having such loving parents. The divorce was rough for his nine-year-old self. If only he had that opportunity.

"That kid is wearing Prada for christsake, that’s what I call a stable family," he thought jealously. "If only I had been born to rich, gay parents, maybe then I wouldn't be so depressed. Maybe then I would have gone to college, got an English degree and made something of myself, like my high school buddy Frank. I'd kill to be a technical writer like Frank. I hear they pay $35,000 a year for that job. At that rate, college would have paid for itself!"

He looks out the window and thinks, "When is Korn going to come out with a new album? If only I could Google it but of course the fucking cellphone mom gave me for my birthday doesn't have internet access. What a fucking joke."

After getting off the train he went to the nearest Internet Café and logged onto SouthSideSox to see what everyone planned on doing prior to the game. Hopefully he could bum a few beers and some food from one of the guys with a job. As a lurker he would have to explain himself pretty good but he had written down a script last summer that he had been rehearsing over and over again. He planned on telling them all that he was a regular commenter that had apparently gone missing in sub-Saharan Africa. He memorized all that commenters comments so his life story seemed consistent.


What are you people doing for Opening Day? Even if you aren't going? What are you going to do?

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