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When In Doubt, Talk About Yourself....

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No news. Nothing. Since the breaking news of Jeff Fassero being invited to jitterbug with the rest of the senior citizens, there just hasn't been anything to note. My days are spent combing Dutch websites, trying to find an arcane reference of Rikkert Faneyte to amuse you.

Oh, but there are other stories to regale you with. There are books to be filled with the anecdotes grifted from my boar hunting escapades with Hemingway, but that isn't too relevant for a Giants site. Instead, this is going to be an homage to the worst job I ever had, which was as a ballpark vendor for the Giants.

Five years after I quit, I sat down with a very good female friend. "Say, Allegorical Friend," I started. "How come in my romantic experiences, not once has a woman asked me to put on a striped shirt, wear a canteloupe-sized button reading '$3.25', and yell, 'Craaaaacker Jacks!' in bed?"

"Because," she replied. "That sort of thing isn't very attractive to women."

Whammo! It all made sense now. That would explain the lack of phone numbers I picked up. Also, my opening line, revolving around me being the prize in the Cracker Jacks, wasn't so good. I've had time to reflect, and all.

That was the least of my worries, however. My worst problem was that I was about 60 pounds of muscle-bound fury, and the job required physical labor. Walking around all day isn't bad. Walking around all day with a tray of 30 water bottles and ice is bad. From the moment I strapped the tray on, it felt like I was carrying Livan Hernandez over the threshold of a honeymoon suite. And then back down the stairs. And then back up. Down. Up. It was pretty continous, not including the time I spent collecting my ejected vertabrae.

All of this glory for 17% commission. That works out to about $0.47 per box. Well, $0.36 after taxes. Less after union dues. Also, people don't really like to pay $2.50 for stale Cracker Jacks. Oh, and there were usually about 20 people at the night games.

"Frank, you want some Cracker Jacks?"
"No."
"Sure you do. I'll be back in about five damn minutes....Carl, you want some Cracker Jacks?"

I have seen things. Oh, how I have seen things. You -- yeah, you -- have no idea where that hot dog has been. Or, for that matter, how it was prepared. (Full disclosure: the two unexciting answers are "in a freezer", and "boiled". I was just trying to create a little Dateline hidden camera drama.)

Alright, my major complaints are that I actually had to work, and that I didn't look cool. My life was not exactly one of milking cows at 4:00 a.m., no. The good part is that I was able to catch the eighth and ninth innings of about 40 games. This game, sucked, though. Oh, man, this game featured Orel Hershisher, Alvin Morman, and a blown save from Nen. Fricking bleah. If you could sum up the '98 season in six words, in fact, they would be "decided by a Neifi Perez homer". Maybe that's why I hated the job.

2008: The Year the Psychic Scars Inflicted By Neifi Start To Heal. I can't wait.

Comment starter: Your worst job or attended Giants game.