BRONX, NY/INTERNETSVILLE, USA – Today we get scientific in a way that only countless social media shares and assorted internet “news sites” can inspire. This is important stuff, people. You need to know what you’re doing to yourselves! It’s not too late, dammit!!! This is what happens to your body when you watch the New York Mets.
1 minute. Bartolo Colon takes the mound. Neurotransmitters in your in your brain send a message to your half-empty stomach that it’s feeling quite bloated. You get a gnawing feeling that you’re not getting to the gym enough. Drops of perspiration start forming under your man tits.
7 minutes. David Wright goes to field a ground ball and you feel a sharp pain in the small of your back.
14 minutes. Yoenis Cespedes rockets a shot into the gap scoring Curtis Granderson. Tension in your shoulders you weren’t aware of, melts away.
1 hour. The Mets haven’t scored in 46 minutes so you pass the time eating a sleeve of Oreos causing your blood sugar to spike. Your live responds by turning sugar into fat and begging you to drink some sort of high-proof brown liquor. You oblige.
1 hour and 2 minutes. The game is tied at 1. Colon is still pitching well, but dread starts creeping in. Your stomach starts creating acid at an alarming rate. Acid production doubles when Michael Cuddyer can’t run down a lazy fly ball that bounds into the stands for a ground-rule double. Your brain thinks “Screw Cuddyer! He plays hard, yes. But he plays hard because he’s so old that Ty Cobb was his gramps.”
1 hour and 23 minutes. Your pupils dilate and your blood pressure rises as you watch that little homunculus Travis d’Arnaud go fishing for some off-speed garbage from some ancient junkballer like Aaron Harang or someone.
1 hour and 26 minutes. Colon flails wildly at first two pitches and then inexplicably punches a base hit into right. Color returns to your face followed by a guffaw that dislodges some Oreo remnants from your molars. Your brain and liver both suggest you have a celebratory drink for that Herculean feat. You do.
1 hour and 34 minutes. With the Mets trailing 2-1, Manager Terry Collins gets some action going in the bullpen. The “action” is Bobby Parnell and Eric O’Flaherty. Stomach acid production complete. Brain function is now frozen. Luckily your colon kicks in and reminds you to pause the game as you repair to the bathroom for a little diarrhea.
1 hour and 57 minutes. That piece of sh!t Bobby Parnell came in, walked two and left without recording an out. Hives break out on your hindquarters.
2 hours. Eric O’Flaherty??? Your brain shuts down completely. Catatonia sets in. When you come to, you’re not sure what O’Flaherty even did but you know it wasn’t good.
2 hours 20 minutes. The Mets are down by a bunch.Your body has expelled all of its acid and four to five drinks worth of alcohol are now coursing through your system. It’s time to let the monkey out of the cage. You start talking to the TV, checking your phone for the Nationals score (the Nationals suck, thank God), and waiting for Keith Hernandez to say something inappropriate. Your right hand, acting on its own accord, tweets something truly unspeakable about Jeff Wilpon, Terry Collins, Jared Fogle and a $5 footlong.
2 hours 27 minutes. Thanks to a Wright home run (he’s still playing?) the Mets are back in it. The pleasure center of your brain still has a sign hanging on the door that reads “Out of Business. Thanks for your lack of patronage, assbags.”
2 hours 39 minutes. Holy Crap! The Mets tie it up on a two run double by Cuddyer. What a gutty veteran that guy is. You feel something resembling hope but it’s more likely a combination of alcohol-lowered inhibition, Scotty Bowman mongoloid eyes, and the fact that you accidentally sat on the remote and switched to a particularly hilarious rerun of “Taxi.”
2 hours 42 minutes. “Tylurrrr Clishparrd. Now there’s a f*#@ing acquisition!!!” zzzzzzzzzzzz
4 hours 20 minutes. “Mmph… whuh? What happened? The Mets won? Awesome.” 52% alert, your body can now manage such menial tasks as brushing your teeth, scraping the brown booze coat of your tongue, and urinating something resembling a mixture of pineapple soda and consomme.
Another night well spent.