Pocket Schedule Blues

This is going to hurt.

Today, I tackle the spring pocket schedule. A composite of dates and times sure to be at least partially incorrect by the first date listed. A spring schedule and grass fields in the mid-atlantic region, what could possibly go wrong?

I go through this three times a year. Fall. Winter. Spring.

I throw in the sports, then send it off to the printer with a clever disclaimer about dates and times being subject to change. I even offer several alternatives as to where to find up to the very last second schedules in several locations.

And the phone call or the email invaribly comes after the first make-up game.

“My niece's softball team played so-and-so yesterday, and I missed it because it was not on my pocket schedule,” the conversation will start.

“Yes, ma’am,” I’ll reply masking my contempt. “That was a make-up game from the double-header rained out last week. On your schedule, there are alternative options for more current schedules.”

“Well, I didn’t see them…” she’ll counter.

And we’re off.

So, to you Aunt X, and all of the people of your ilk, I offer this special disclaimer on the bottom of the schedule:

Dates and times are subject to change... without me personally calling you, emailing you, IMing you, sending you smoke signals, or engaging in any other un-enumerated acts of interpersonal communication. There is a phone number and a web site prominently listed here and several other places informing you where to locate a schedule with changes due to weather, field availability, conflicts of a religious nature, terrorist attacks, or any other act of God or fucking man that was not foreseen when the original contract was drawn or schedule was printed.

If you are too old to know how to use the Internet, and still have the pulse technology phone because you are too old for touch-tone, please die so that the monthly raping I enjoy in the social security box of my pay stub may one day bear fruit for me. By the way, if you enjoy a large amount of wealth, please leave a good portion of it earmarked to this institution’s sports information office that I may hire a qualified assistant. I hate to bitch, but my experiments in growing an arm out of my ass have all been tremendous failures, and I have to mention, the results have been quite uncomfortable.

Understand that by having read the first seven words of this disclaimer, I remove myself from any responsibility for you driving somewhere on the wrong date and time. Also understand that when you contact me, you are the idiot AND the asshole.

Oh, you’re a tree murdering douchebag too. Make sure you recycle it it when you're through.