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Baseball has some weird rules. Like, why is the foul pole fair? If it hits the pole, it's a fair ball. If it misses, it's foul. It's like the pole has magical fair/foul powers. And don't get me started on the designated hitter rule. In what other sport do they say, "You don't have to play defense; just focus on hitting." Can you imagine if that applied to real life? "Sorry, boss, I'm just here to do the fun part of the job. Susan can handle all the boring paperwork.
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You ever been to a baseball game? It's like a five-hour commitment to watching a bunch of guys stand around in a field. And they call it a sport! I call it a lesson in patience. You know, they say baseball is America's favorite pastime, but I didn't realize they meant it's so slow it literally feels like you're watching time pass. It's the only sport where you can grab a hot dog, take a nap, and still not miss anything important.
And what's with the seventh-inning stretch? They make everyone get up and sing, "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I'm like, "I just spent seven innings sitting, and now you want me to stand and sing? My legs are already protesting, and now my vocal cords are on strike too.
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Baseball fans are a special breed. You see people doing the wave, trying to start a chant, or wearing the same unwashed jersey for weeks because it's their lucky charm. I tried joining in once, and I think I pulled a muscle attempting the wave. It's like synchronized swimming but with a lot less grace. And the die-hard fans who paint their faces in team colors—I admire their dedication, but I can't help but think, "How do you explain that to your boss on Monday morning?" "Yeah, I was at a baseball game. No, I wasn't on the team. Yes, I know it's Tuesday.
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Let's talk about the food at baseball games. It's like they took a menu and said, "How can we make everything portable and messy?" You got hot dogs, nachos with that neon-orange cheese that's not found in nature, and pretzels the size of car tires. And what's with the peanuts? They're everywhere! It's like playing Minesweeper, but with peanut shells. You're just walking, trying not to slip on a peanut and do the splits in the middle of the stadium. And let's not forget the cotton candy that's bigger than your head. I don't know whether to eat it or use it as a pillow for the inevitable seventh-inning nap.
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