I was shot and robbed at the Florence Freedom baseball game Tuesday night.
Something hit my shoulder with crushing force in the second inning and thudded to the ground at my feet. It was a navy t-shirt, tied up into a bow like some cruel grenade. My best guess was that it was shot by a t-shirt cannon, so I turned around to look for the perpetrator. I saw nothing, so I twisted back around to get it when someone began to close in on my prize.
A small child, running from several rows over, reached out her little hand, swooped down, and grabbed the shirt from off of my Sperry. Before I could protest, she was running back to her seat, shirt held high.
Her mother congratulated her on her prize as she climbed back into her seat. But I was livid. Her brother, I'm sure, could feel the fire in my eyes as I glared over at them. Oh, he knew. He knew how I had been wronged by his little harlot of a sister. But that didn't stop him from wearing it later.
Children like that are why people murder other people. If I ever see them again, I'm telling them that Santa Claus isn't real and their mother found them in a dumpster. There is no excuse for rude children like that.
I hate America.
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