(no subject)

Last night we were flipping through the channels and landed on the rain delayed Giants game. The announcer was so down in tone, it was like listening to Marvin the Paranoid Android call a game...

Announcer: If you are just joining us ... it's a lovely night for baseball, 50 degrees in AT & T park, a light breeze, a pathetic sprinkling of rain, like the unclean urine of some minor demon, and in the distance the Golden Gate sings to me its sweet siren song of death. On deck right now for the Giants, Swarton, with an average of .167. Waiting in the pen is... ah, who cares, some guy. That's the first pitch, high and inside, ball one, futile, like this barren life, a void that beckons with no end except the promise of oblivion, a promise that gets sweeter with each passing... second pitch, a breaking ball, just caught the plate on the outside, one ball, one strike. Swarton, an 11 year veteran, shipwrecked at the Giants after bouncing from team to team, should just give up and get a nice heroin addiction to pass the remainder of his pathetic years on the planet. I don't know why he bothers when drawing breath is hardly worth the energy it takes to expel it...Oh! Swarton got a tiny piece of that one, off the top of the bat, a high pop fly along the baseline, it's going, going, yes, it's gone foul and into the crowd.

I guess when you call games for the Giants, you tend to get a certain perspective on things...