by James Finn Garner
These are the saddest of all possible words:
Foul ball bounced up in my nuts.
Flew up like a hawk and fell back like a turd.
Foul ball bounced up in my nuts.
Ruthlessly pricking my gonfalon testes,
Causing me pain from my east to my westies,
Never again will I be at my besties:
Foul ball bounced up in my nuts.
The clips are rerun on the news
With multiple, alternate views
A blow which is felt
Below ev’ry belt
With a horrible saddle-stitched bruise
This game has its downs and its ups
For lifers as well as young pups.
To ensure the creation
of the next generation,
All fans will need to wear cups.
It’s tragic that cup bereft lads
might fail to grow up to be dads
That father and son
won’t bond in the sun
comparing their unruptured nads
If you sit in pricey box seats,
Where there’s room for a beer at your feets,
Don’t be surprised
If your fear’s realized
And a baseball jumps into your beets.
Folks go for the seats near the action
The closer the greater attraction
But sitting too near
foul tips instill fear
one’s cojones will wind up in traction
These are pretty fantastic.
My small contribution (I’m self-censoring some potential first lines that are tasteless even by the standards of /this/ subject matter, but perhaps something about bathroom stalls would be appropriate?)
****
One still ought to sit far back from walls
For you still risk the bad news
Of, what’s worse then a bruise,
A ball striking you in the balls.
Wait, no, sorry, Hilary already got the news/bruise rhyme. Maybe:
For one risks a foul strike
In a place one won’t like
If a ball catches one in the balls.
Also, given that “gonfalon” means “pennant,” I’m sort of curious as to how that could apply to, you know…
Ah, you’re right about “gonfalon”. My mistake. Stu and I wrote it over beers quickly, and I didn’t send it past my editor.
These comments are the evidence: There’s nothing funnier under the sun than someone (else) getting punched in the pebbles.
I do, however, take issue with the generalization at the end of comment 2…
Among fans’ new uniforms, perhaps
Uniformity ends at the caps.
In the league of /my/ own,
I will have it be known,
We don’t need to bother with straps.
Though in stands many fans will conjoin,
Only some have the cash and the coin
to purchase the seats
they reserve for elites
It’s too bad they’re paid back in the groin