Mustard Please

I never refer to a sports team as “we.”
I’m not the one throwing the ball.
Or tackling anybody. Or scoring points. Or goals.
All I did was pay for the tickets.
And the beer. And hot dogs. And this jersey.
And parking, of course.
Cops earn overtime to deal with the traffic.
Paid for by my tax dollars.
My tax dollars paid for the additional road maintenance. And roads.
Oh, and for this stadium.
And Child Services, for all the kids these athletes father but don’t support financially.
Oh, what do I want on my hot dog?
Mustard, please.

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