Mets fans know what I'm talking about. Photo via Rex USA
As I watched the Cleveland Indians’ wholesale slaughter of the Houston Astros last week (the final score was 19-6), an odd feeling crept over me. It was horrible to watch a baseball team get absolutely creamed like that, but it was also oddly familiar, and not just because the Astros are terrible. The mixture of pleasure and pain that unfolded over nine innings—it started out scary, but ended up being kind of fun—was pretty much like anal sex. Actually, baseball blowouts—be they the 1897 Chicago Colts’ 36-7 record-setting victory over Louisville, the 30-3 destruction of the Baltimore Orioles by the 2007 Texas Rangers, this season’s 15-0 shellacking of the Nationals by the Reds—are exactly like anal sex. Here’s an inning-by-inning recap:
THE FIRST INNING: BACKDOOR PRESSURE
The initial runs that appear on the scoreboard serve as a quiet harbinger of what’s to come, much like the none-too-subtle pressure of a wiener knocking on your tightly clenched rosebud. This game won’t really be so bad, you tell yourself. Then another walk, wild pitch, ground-rule double, and you surreptitiously clasp your cheeks in expectation. But I never do anal!
THE SECOND INNING: PENETRATION
Much like the moment when your lover spits on your asshole, the appearance of an additional three or four runs in the second officially heralds that anal is occurring, and then—yup, that’s a dick in your asshole. Any hope of a comeback is shattered, and no amount of praying for run support will make that sweet pucker of yours any less penetrated. The flesh of your loins quivers, bases loaded, no outs.
THE THIRD INNING: THE SECOND SPHINCTER
As the runs pile on in the third inning, what seemed like a manageable breach of your anus quickly morphs into a hideous realization, signaled by a clarion moment of pain. Oh my God, there’s a second sphincter_! _The initial moment of embarrassing discomfort quickly gives way to a moment of confused pain. The game is young and anxiety is high and you, my dear, have not yet embraced the fact that you are definitely ass-fucked.
THE FOURTH INNING: OH MY GOD IT’S IN
Still struggling to deal with the ache of an unprepared insertion, the feeling of an entire turgid penis filling your rectum blasts away any shred of dignity and obliterates any hope of victory you had. There’s no denying your state of ass-fucked-ness now, and there’s no way your team is coming back. The game is over.
THE FIFTH INNING: SLOW! SLOW!
White-knuckling the last vestiges of your dignity, the unrepentant cock begins to work its way back and forth, slurping in and out of your anus in steady, confident motions. The other team continues to pound the scoreboard, putting up run after run after run. You yell and whimper, begging the onslaught of home runs and pelvic thrusting to ease their pacing. Slower, please! The manager is going through the bull pen, utilizing every little-seen long reliever he can find. Just how high will the score climb?
THE SIXTH INNING: YOU DIRTY, DIRTY PERVERT
With each crack of the bat, balls fly out of the park, and you begin to revel in the sheer perversity of the situation. Your team is down 15 runs! There is a cock lodged firmly in your ass! Grunting and writhing, you bask in the heretofore unknown capacity of your asshole to take such a legendary pounding. Eyeing the scoreboard, your mouth is a wretched grin. You’re the fucking Marquis de Sade of baseball! Relishing each run against you! More runs! Let’s break the record, baby!
THE SEVENTH INNING: PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT
With each run scored, you grind menacingly into baseball’s pelvis. Slowly at first, you rock back and forth, meeting his thrusts, opening and relaxing and accepting. Wallowing in the luscious depravity a glorious loss, it barely registers when your team’s manager gets thrown out for punching his own first-base coach. On your hands and knees, a howling animal of need and filth, you lean hard into every at-bat. Load the bases? Grand slam, motherfucker!
THE EIGHTH INNING: FUCKING POUND ME LIKE THE FIST OF GOD
Unintelligible noise is pouring from your mouth as baseball fucks you better than anything you’d ever dared to contemplate. Wallowing in pleasure, you are lost in the anathema of ass-fucking. Spreading you open with hooked fingers, baseball spits into your wanton hole, and it winks at him while you bite your own hands to keep from incinerating into nothingness. Harder, baseball, harder!
THE NINTH INNING: COMPLETION
The rhythmic clenching of ejaculation fills your core as you inhale the sick scent of slaughter. Hours ago, the mere thought of such a pounding would have made you quake with terror, but here you are, taking it like a goddamned professional. The game ends with a couple weak ground outs—the players just want to go home—and baseball pulls out, leaving you spent and wet, facedown in a puddle of an exhilarating loss.
On the off chance you want more baseball after that, try these: