Barack Obama Terrorizes Major League World Series

Perhaps the only thing more invasive than a swiftly administered anal probe by a federal official is the 30-minute infomercial for the Obama campaign that will delay the start of Game Six of the World Series by 15 minutes. 

The creeping feeling of government assault on my leisure time makes me want to pack my essentials, move to West Virginia, don red suspenders (no shirt) and rolled-up jeans, rant about BIG GUBB-MENT, and physically threaten precious infants so that they too will grow up to despise BIG GUBB-MENT and all its DAMNED RULES AND REG-UMALATIONS AND SUCH.

By the time Game Six rolls around, American couch spuds everywhere will be in a decidedly apolitical, even anti-political, state: Nachos will be devoured, generic females marginalized, Joe Maddon's faux-hipster spectacles revered, well whiskey gargled, and notably horrific jokes cracked by that one awful, awful (I mean, just plain horrendous, PeeWee Herman terrible) guy that somehow managed to worm his way into your social group and remain there no matter how many times you’ve subtly tried to let him know he’s not welcome by sneakily increasing the urine-to-alcohol content of the cocktails you serve him until there’s nothing left but warm yellow pee in a glass.  No ice.     

If anyone in a primitive gathering involving said elements mentions anything remotely political—besides the universally laudable "WE'VE GOT TO KILL [insert official enemy X] AND THEN SHOVE A BOOT RIGHT UP THEIR [insert overtly racist adjective-Y] ASS!" (It's questionable if it is best to murder someone before shoving your foot up their rectum; this will be left to the citizen's preference. Also, "PEEHOLE" may replace "ASS.")—he will be scorned out of the room. 

Politics has no place on a delicious night of sports entertainment and endlessly repeating UPS commercials.

The group of Americans likely to be the most offended by Fox renting out that cherished pregame half hour is the creepy, lonely, 40-something, pasty-white, bottle-cap glasses-wearing, potential serial killers. 

Yes.  The skinny kind of guy you can imagine dressing up in a Santa suit then pleasuring himself to old tapes of Boomer Esiason interviews with the barrel of a loaded 12-gauge pointed directly at a Barbie doll in the corner of his apartment that's littered with Pop Tart wrappers.  

A lot of these guys seem to be named "Julius." 

One hundred percent.  Julius.  Jules.  Oh my GOH.

You definitely know one.  Every town has at least one.  And in big cities, New York, for instance, it's startling to imagine how many there are.  I'd rather not think about it.  The guy who runs the liquor store near me is absolutely one.  He claims his name is Steve, but he's not fooling me.

On Sunday I was in there buying some Abita beer before watching the Saints pull a "Gramatica" and desperately self-destruct up and down the gridiron against the Panthers. Steve and I got to talking. 

I asked him who his favorite football player was, and he replied by entirely disregarding the question and instead lecturing me on the benefits of burying VHS tapes filled with Saved by the Bell reruns in your backyard just in case BIG GUBB-MENT decides to intrude on your rights and invade your home WITH THEIR BLACK HAWK HELLYCOPTERS AND SUCH.

At some point, I think "Steve" vaguely hinted at his frustration with the Obama campaign's announcement about their advertisement, but it was difficult to tell, as I was focused on the filthy, impossible sweat streaming down his sour-milky face in that well air-conditioned room.

When he paused in the middle of his raving to wipe his glasses with a sopping dish rag from under the cash register, I quickly said goodbye and made for the exit. 

"Melvin," he said to me as I was pushing the door open.  (I have no idea why he calls me Melvin.  It's not remotely close to my name.)  "Melvin, wait."

"Yes, Jules."

"Do you ever wonder what it would feel like—I mean REALLY FEEL like—to drag a pickled prune across Don Beebe's cheek while wearing a pink tutu on NFL Sunday?" 

"Julius, put down the damned pickled prune and just go back to work.  Put it back in the jar.  We go through this every week!" 

I got a bit sidetracked there, but the thrust of my argument bears repeating: BIG GUBB-MENT, keep your HELLFIRE POLITICS AND SUCH out of our World Series—or the Barbie doll gets it.