>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf
October 19, 2005
Jesse: The key to getting away with stuff comes down to one thing.
Nathan: What’s that?
Jesse: Witnesses. When there’s witnesses, you gotta temper your act and choose your moments.
Nathan: I can never tell when you’re serious or not.
When I was a wee teenage lad, an executive secretary friend of mine did me the gracious honor of consistently getting me baseball tickets. The worse the Cardinals did, the better seats I received. One day, in a relatively down year for the home team, my buddy Jesse and I scored some sweet tickets behind home plate. Row 8, to be inexact.
In the second inning of this game a young couple told us we were in their seats. When we showed them our tickets, we discovered that the 8s were actually Bs, and that this meant we were in the second row behind home plate. The couple offered to trade with us. We declined.
In Row B, we discovered a different kind of baseball fan than we ever knew existed: quiet, tasteful and distracted. Anything beyond a standing applause was unthinkable to these people. Well, naturally, they resented us because we were screaming, jumping up and down, harassing the umpire, and just generally getting into it. Who knew when we’d have tickets this close again? We’d certainly never been there before; the odds of us returning seemed slim, so we milked it. I mean guys, the umpire could hear every word we yelled. How can you not harass him from those seats? It’s impossible.
In the sixth inning, a gray-haired gentlemen to Jesse’s right asked him how he got his ticket and what position he had at the really rich company whose tickets we were using.
Jesse replied, “Are you familiar with our bioengineering projects.”
“Yes…” and the gentleman nodded his head as if to say, “Go on.”
“Well,” said Jesse. “I’m involved in one of those projects where they do comparable DNA analysis. I specialize in goat DNA.”
“How’s that?” said the gentleman.
“Well, I help scientists figure out how human DNA and goat DNA interact and react in a natural environment.”
“Basically,” Jesse whispered, “I fuck goats.”
And the old man freaked out and started screaming for the usher, positioned approximately fifteen feet away at this point. You had to hand it (whatever the hell it was) to the usher. He seemed generally interested in the problems of Row B.
Upon the usher’s arrival, the gentleman stated while pointing at Jesse as if repeatedly jabbing him with a small knife, “That man is vulgar. He has been yelling all game and he told me the most disgusting thing—”
“Dude,” interrupted Jesse. “I root for my team by cheering. I work hard and I work long hours in the sun. When I told this man what I do for a living, he became insulted. And just because I work with my hands like a real man. Quite frankly, I think he’s rather prude.”
By this point, other audience members were shouting in favor of Jesse and asking the old man to sit down and calm down. The gentleman collected his lady and his possessions and left the stadium. I don’t know exactly what a huff looks like, but I’m pretty sure the gentleman and his lady left in one.
“That,” Jesse told me, “is what I call, Effective Jerk.”
“Nicely done.”
“Thanks.”
In case you were looking for it, this story has no moral.