My boyfriend's taking my younger brother to a baseball game today. What could be more wholesome? Except that my brother is deathly allergic to peanuts. And today will certainly be the day they finally come for him.
Yeah, my brother's a grown-ass man who's been going to ball games since he was a fetus, and yeah, he's been dealing with this allergy for 19 years and has one of those insta-syringe Epipen things that you stab into your own thigh in an Pulp-Ficition-style allergy-emergency. But I assume that right when Justin Morneau hits an incredible pop-up in the bottom of the ninth, deep to center field, as the ball arcs gracefully toward my brother and my boyfriend and they outstretch their mitts in a moment of childlike bliss and they meet each other's eyes and know -- for the first time -- that they could be family... that's when some crazy drunk girl from two rows back will stumble forward with one hand full of peanuts and the other hand full of crackerjacks, rub them into my brother's face, and kiss him on the mouth with her face full of peanutty Big League Chew, and then, of course, grab the Epipen from my brother's back pocket before he can get to it, and plunge it into my boyfriend's heart before running and leaping off the center field wall and grabbing the ball out of the air on her way down, so that not only will my boyfriend and brother die horrible deaths, the Twins' potentially game winning home run will be rendered illegitimate. I just know it. Goddamn peanuts and crackerjacks... I DO care if they never come back.
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