When I was a young lad, my father brought me to a baseball game.
I was very excited! I loved baseball. I loved the roar of the crowd and the smell of nitrite-enriched foods. We had hot dogs, Cracker Jack, cotton candy, and RC Cola.
When we arose for the seventh inning stretch, I knew something wasn’t right. My tummy felt like a science experiment. The gasses of these horribly processed foods converged and created a storm within me.
I knew just the trick: I pushed. Let this vile gas begone!
Before I knew what happened, an acidic stream of liquid erupted into my underwear.
My father knew something was wrong. Perhaps the brown mucous streaming down my leg gave it away. He led me to the bathroom and surveyed the damage. He was never the same again.
I left two things in Shea Stadium that day:
- My innocence
- A pair of underwear
