Had I not been dressed out in my officials gear, I would have mollywhopped that fat mother fucker heckling me tonight.
That's one thing I hate about being an umpire; the psychological feeling that since I'm making judgments on plays that make or break the game, that everyone feels entitled to their LOUD ASS OPINION as to whether or not I'm making good calls.
I'm fucking sorry, ok? I'm fucking sorry. Once again, I'm sorry as fuck that your Little Big Town singin ass had to take a break from fucking your goats to come out and watch your son's shitty ass baseball team get beat 28-14 in a 5 inning game. I'm sorry, ok?
There's nothing I can do about your shallow gene pool or your terrible ass baseball team that physically threatened me after I made a terrific call on a shitty baserunner running past the bag. That bag's there SO YOU WILL STOP ON IT. If your retarded ass steps off the bag and the defensive player has his ball and glove on your shoulder, then you're out. I'm sorry your fucking hot ass mom couldn't see it, and I'm even more sorry that she thinks I "suck".
But I swear to God if I see your mom or dad at fucking McDonald's, I am going to make their lives a living hell for a breif period, so they, too, can feel what it's like to be derided and embarrassed while performing job-related tasks.
There, I feel better.