The Other Side of the Douchebag

This weekend we went to a Royals game. And we got our seats moved.

Her name, we think, was "Liz." Our middle-aged, shorts-around-the-armpits savior, who noticed the ten or so wasted twentysomethings in front of us smoking cigarettes in their stadium seats, dropping the f-bomb every other word and almost coming to blows when each of the large man-boys were armed with the souvenir mini-bats.

Liz was an usher/ass-kicker.

The kids, as I see them, even though they were probably early twenties, wer...