FOE FODDER – OAKLAND

In high school I had a classmate named Trevor. Orange High was, and I assume still is, a school populated mainly by the children of working-class families. We didn’t have a bunch of rich kids. Most of us grew up in pretty modest homes with two working parents. We drove used cars when we turned sixteen, worked P/T jobs and went to community colleges after graduation – a very average school with a very average student body. Except for the Asians, of course.

Trevor didn’t fit an Orange High student profile. He was very poor. He lived in a trailer park with his uncle. He couldn’t afford even modest shoes and clothes. He was in the same jeans and a white t-shirt every day. His shoes were worn. He had no car. Physically, he was unattractive. Scrawny with acne, Trevor was far from being a BMOC (big man on campus). 

Despite his disadvantages, Trevor consistently pulled the finest sixteen and seventeen year-old tail in the city limits. We’re not talking about the nerdy band chicks who were secretly hot under their glasses and stupid faux lettermen jackets. We’re talking cheerleaders and bitchy student government broads with tans and racks. 

It was baffling.

He must have had a great personality and a ton of confidence, right?

Nope. He was a shy dipshit with no sense of humor. 

He must have been incredibly bright and articulate, right?

Not at all. He was in and out of the continuation school down the street all four years and never graduated. 

There can be only one explanation. While it has never been confirmed, deductive reasoning allows for only one conclusion. Trevor was hung like six horses. 

As the Angels head into the land of brawling pregnant whores to take on the Oakland Athletics, we’re faced with yet another mystery. How can a team so disadvantaged – with no money or fans, an awful ballpark in one of the worst neighborhoods in North America, comprised of has beens, never will bes and never wases consistently dominate the standings?

There can be only one answer. The A’s must not have a single dong measuring anything less than 8 inches. 

Good looks and riches cannot compete with an overgrown pork sword on a day to day basis. Think about it. The guy in the band with a third leg is sleeping right now. Soon, he’ll wake up, eat a burrito, pop open a beer and watch cartoons. Meanwhile, the well paid accountant is on his third cup of lukewarm Folger’s, knee deep in P & Ls.. 

What is the lawyer up to this weekend? He’ll be up at 7am to tend to his garden before spending his day at the soccer field watching seven year-olds do nothing for hours on end. Our bassist with the python? He will be at the beach with a bunch of chicks on a 48 hour bender. 

Sucks, right? 

Well, not so fast. Who’s going to be spending weeks in Hawaii in 15 years? Who will have a big house, nice car, successful children and a 10 handicap when it really matters? Who will the prom queen wake up next to every morning in the end? 

Not our buddy with the anaconda. He’ll be sneaking off to the dive bar for some Buds on his lunch break from Guitar Center. He’ll share a frozen pizza with his three roommates for dinner every night. His girlfriend will have five kids from six different dads, all named Spider. 

This A’s team will party. It will likely party for the entirety of the regular season. But like every other overgrown bologna pony, it will lose out to a classier, cleaner more established penis come October.