Summit Up 9-27-09 |

Summit Up 9-27-09

Oscar the Grouch


Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column outraged at the city.

We skidded over the icy pass and navigated heavy traffic to file into a parking space to go watch a baseball game.

There was no parking attendant at the lot, and we had to wait in line for 15 minutes to get to the computer where we inserted our card to buy a $7 space for a couple hours.

Next we purchased $10 nosebleed tickets from a tobacco-stained scalper and entered the ballpark in the third inning.

The cheesesteak sandwich from the vendor tasted less like bologna after a Cholula drenching, and the fries were good.

Later, a geriatric demanded we empty our beer because we were seated in a “family zone.”

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Apparently it’s now acceptable to discriminate against drinkers as well as smokers at the ballpark.

The game was a sloppy excuse for varsity – let alone professional – baseball on the part of the home team.

And the maniac sitting in front of us just would not pipe down.

“Throw the damn ball” and “Get him out of there” were still ringing in our ears when we got up to purchase a couple powder-covered funnel cakes.

Although traditional funnel cakes are made with an actual funnel, on-site, what we purchased from the vendor was a real joke.

We observed the funnel-cake chef pull pre-fabricated cakes from plastic bags, soak them in hot grease to a crisp and slap them on paper plates.

The result was tough and stale-tasting, like it spent the past week under the stands in a cardboard box.

What’s more, somebody’s dad thought the sight of us chowing down on this nutritionless waste to be most entertaining.

Not long after we returned to our family-friendly seats, a hand firmly grabbed our shoulder.

“Let me have a bite,” we heard.

Glancing up, we eyed the silhouette of a middle-aged man under the stadium’s glaring lights.

We shrugged him off with some lowbrow pleasantry that apparently made him comfortable enough to bother us later about how we weren’t eating our funnel cake as quickly as our buddy was eating his.

An older woman in a bonnet was sitting on the other side of us. With every bite of our funnel cake, a small cloud of powdered sugar poofed in her face.

We tried unsuccessfully to avoid it and averted our eyes from her glare.

Not long after the seventh-inning stretch, some kid in our family section dropped a cup on the spectators below our upper-deck level.

A security guard let him off with a warning. Evidently, the policy on projectiles is three strikes, your out.

We will not forget this.

We also will not forget the indignation we felt after the game ended – in a loss – and we found a $67 parking ticket jammed in our Jeep’s window seal.

That 15-minute wait earlier to pay for our spot resulted in a simple mistake: We typed the space in as number 64 rather than 65.

Thanks a lot, Denver parking Nazis. If you bothered to hire a parking attendant we would still be able to buy that down comforter we need for our chilly bed.

Like the punch line you never expect, we found ourselves unable to sleep that night from massive gastric destabilization.

The funnel cake had grown fins and was swimming desperately to find a way out.

We stared at the ceiling, concentrating on not regurgitating the awful $3 treat, until we drifted out – stomach contents intact.

Our slumber was noisily interrupted an hour before our alarm was scheduled to beep: Our roomie’s dog was sitting on her bed, barking in fortissimo at Lord only knows what.

It’s Sunday and we’re watching the game from home.