clock menu more-arrow no yes mobile

Filed under:

Fortune cookies with Darryl P. Skeeby

Just something to wash down the Mongolian Beef.

Time for dessert!
Time for dessert!
Otto Greule Jr/Getty Images

FRALALALALAAAA LALA KA-CHING it is good to be back folks and talking about something I love most when I find myself in a place where there are other people: chinese foods.  The various and exotic cusines brought to this wonderful country by our neighbors to the North is one of the greatest contributions we have ever gotten from anyone and I'm including the freakin' Statue of Liberty in that.  But forget about your favorite dishes because I don't care.  Mine are Orange Chicken, General Tao Chicken, Walnut Shrimp, Mongolian Beef, and all of the Soups.  Now forget the main dishes for a second because I have a little sinful truth I have to admit to.  For me, the best part of finding yourself in the middle of ten to twelve white boxes with red houses along the sides is the little plastic baggie full of fortune cookies.

Now, follow me here.  Fortune cookies have a real chance to send a message here.  Imagine if your piece of mudpie cake at the end of your Claim Jumper meal could yell back, "SLOW DOWN, FATSO." It can't.  But a fortune cookie can.  I think, if given the correct, basebally phrases, we could learn a lot from those weirdly shaped boats of vanilla and meaning.  So, I wrote some fortune cookies.  Someone here, I hope, has the technology to make these happen.

People who love numbers are never dependable.

This was one of the first lessons I learned in life.  Have you ever met a number-cruncher that pleased you?  Oh sure, math this and shapes that, but where's the heart and soul?  That's right, you lost it to your crush in seventh grade.

WAR, what is it good for?

I still don't get it.

Only take if it's high and tight.

Seriously, swing the damn bat if you wanna get on base.  Nobody walks their way to the Hall.  They sprint to it with a belly full of sauerkraut and mustard and a heart full of doubles to the gap.

Run, don't walk, Robbie.

Jogging is for hippies and people who wish they could do yoga but are just bad at that and running.

Hell hath no fury like a hit and run sign scorned.

Don't miss my signs or else I will put you in the literal doghouse.  It's full of dogs.  And bones.

A sash says a lot more than a crown.

Sometimes I just like to feel fancy.

Your pants should be dirtier.

Now, let me explain here.  If there is one thing I get sick of watching in this modern game it's that nobody gets dirty enough.  There is a bunch of dirt in the middle of the field of play and the lack of it on player's pants indicates a real lack of effort.  I don't care if it hurts your scabbed knees and the ball is ten feet to your right.  You dive for the posterity of your grandpa who would have done the same for you.  Let Billy the Intern deal with the staining.

Drop the hammer, chicken's in the bag.

Ever wonder what pitching coaches talk about out there?

The groundball is quick, but a fielder sees at night.

Listen, when I learned how to play ball it was blindfolded and in the middle of a windstorm and I'll be damned if I don't turn the prettiest double play you've ever seen.  When did we start affording these new-age babies the luxury of seeing the ball?

Shades in the box gets you beaned.

I'm not kidding if you wear sunglasses when you hit prepare to take a four-seamer to the ribs.  Respect the game.

Trot the four-baggers.

Kid, if you put one in the bleachers, let 'em know.  Mosey around those basepaths somethin' mean.

What I'm trying to get at is that next time you open your "fortune" at the end of swellin' your belly with barbecue pork and spicy mustards, think about the game.  Think about the respect it deserves.  And then think about that piece of paper sittin' in your hand all nice and pretty-like that says something benign like, "I love Chinese food."  Well no shit you do.  We all do.  Let's write some cookie-learnin' that really means something.  Let's leave a legacy.