From everyone's favorite intellectual lightweight's most recent
column:
There comes a time in any man's life when he realizes that he is an insignificant speck of dust careering aimlessly through the cosmic woof of time. For me that moment came when the Washington Nationals baseball team assigned seating locations for its season ticket holders. The seats my buddies and I were assigned are somewhere south of Montreal but nowhere near home plate.
The seating assignments were done by a "lottery," but as the team president, Tony Tavares, told The Washington Post in a statement that pretty well sums up American civilization in our era, "This is Washington, D.C., and I had to take care of certain people. Of course, V.I.P.'s were taken care of, as they are in any other circumstance."
Ha-ha. The mental pygmy is up in the nosebleed section, and he might want to be careful since he already looks a little pale... Would he survive a nosebleed?
While I am slightly bothered that there is preferencial treatment going on here, that bother is more than outweighed by that warm sense of satisfaction in knowing that Brooks simply didn't make the cut.
Ha-ha.
No, this is not a particularly weighty or important diary.