What Have They Done to My House?

Imagine going on vacation after a long and difficult year at work. You’re tired of the daily grind and just need to get away. After a relaxing trip you return home looking forward to sleeping in your own bed and watching your own television complete with the MLB Network.

When you pull up to your house after being gone you notice that your front door is wide open and people you don’t know are wandering in and out of your house speaking some dialect that you haven’t heard since the last time you watched the Dukes of Hazzard or Forrest Gump. Suddenly your heart starts pumping and you jump out of the car while it is still coming to a stop to see what is going on.

Monster Jam at Chase FieldWhen you enter your house, instead of seeing your furnishings the way you left them, all the furniture has been moved out. Where once was a lush area of carpet someone had laid down sheets of plywood and filled your living room with dirt. There is a haze of dirt and exhaust fumes hovering around the room as people with bib overalls and crooked teeth stand cheering while drinking some unknown beverage out of mason canning jars.

You immediately go back outside to check the house number. Somehow you convince yourself that you are on the wrong street or stopped at the wrong house. After carefully checking your directions and validating the house number against what it says on your driver’s license you realize that this really is your house and those people really are in your living room cheering on dirt.

You go back in and now there are what appears to be large vehicles not only driving around your living room but driving over the top of one another leaving a carnage of damaged car parts all over what was once your carpet.

You are feeling a little faint so you weave in and out of the mass of people looking for your favorite chair. When you get there you find some guy wearing camouflage with a trucker style “I Heart Beer” hat. He has a T-shirt that is three times too small with a picture of three wolves howling at the moon. About all that is missing is that he isn’t eating roast squirrel on a stick.

You try to explain to the person that all you want to do is sit down and try to process what is happening. Instead he argues that this is his chair that he and his friend Bubba bought from a guy out front on the street. Surely you must be dreaming and wonder if you should pinch yourself to try and wake up. Bubba’s sister in the 3XL halter-top offers to pinch you and you realize this isn’t a dream as much as it is a nightmare.

“What is happening?” You yell to anyone who might be listening. The crowd responds in unison, “It’s Monster Jam!” Oh for the love of all that is holy, they have taken your beloved Chase Field and turned it into some sort of monster truck rally.

I used to think that perhaps two seasons of going 81-81 was somehow a result of players underachieving or a series of unforeseen injuries. Now looking around me I am convinced the baseball gods are punishing us for defiling the temple. There’s really no other explanation.

I am not exactly sure what the penitence is for defiling a temple but I bet it will require the sacrificing of a virgin, a live chicken, and the burning of a Dodger hat in effigy.

As I stood there trying to comprehend all that was around me I made a solemn vow. I’m never going on vacation again and if I do leave town I am picking better friends to take care of my house while I am gone.


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