To make you all suffer, HERE IS THE MOST RECENT GLENN BECK NEWSLETTER. He has to throw a pitch at a baseball game! It is very exciting because he is a fat fat fattie!
California Dreamin' by Glenn Beck
Now, I could easily utter those two words at the beginning of any day with the world, well, you know—almost over and everything. Plus, I’ve been looking at early tapes of the TV show and it appears that my wardrobe was being provided by Barnum and Bailey (I thought I looked…stylish?). But that’s not why I’m terrified.
I’m scared because I have to throw a ball.
Before you all start laughing (and I fear it will be at me, not with me), hear me out. My radio show is now carried by KLAA in Los Angeles, and the people who own that station also happen to own the Anaheim Angels baseball team. They thought it would be great publicity if I threw out the first ball. Of a game. With people in the stands. Watching me. Throw a ball. All the way from the pitcher’s mound. To home plate. I know that’s only 60 feet to those of you with “muscles” in your arms, but with my complete lack of anything remotely resembling athletic ability, it may as well be 600 feet. I throw like a girl.
Actually, that’s not fair to girls. Oh, what a crazy dream…I wish I could throw like a girl! You want to know the worst of it—my son Raphe is a natural athlete. I’ll have to hire someone to teach him the manly art of throwing a ball…that’s any ball associated with any sport. Can you see why I’m terrified? I’m going to be on television throwing a baseball that will fall 50 feet short of the catcher and now I’ve realized that I’m going to need to rent my son an athletic role model!
Plus, I have to actually go to Los Angeles.
Now, I love certain things about L.A.—In & Out Burger, the weather…In & Out Burger. But what I don’t love is the high “crazy people to Glenn” ratio. Something happens to people out there. They’re...different. Odd. They’re L.A. people. And I can’t throw a ball. And my son—who is 2 years old—is my physical superior. All I can say is, I’m sorry—sorry for the baseball fans who will be forced to witness my wimpy pitch, sorry to my son who will have to settle for me teaching him how to be a fear monger and not an outfielder, and sorry to all the completely insane individuals whom I shall run from when I’m in Los Angeles.
And while we’re on the subject, I’m not a very graceful runner either. You know how Richard Simmons flits about? Compared to me, he’s like Brando in a tank top. I’m getting a headache. I think I should lie down…you know—rest my “gun” for the big game.
Pray for me—when I face the Angels, I’ll need all the help I can get.
*I kid, I totally love you all, I just think you guys have an inflated idea of what qualifies as "hygenic", "important" and "mannerly". WHATEVER.