ne of baseball’s most time-honored traditions came under fire this week after numerous fans were injured during the Oakland Athletics’ yearly “Every Fan Gets a Chair Day� promotion. This year’s incarnation ended in a tragic photo-op when Tuesday’s game with the Texas Rangers came to a stop after Texas reliever Frank Francisco hand-delivered one fan her chair at a high rate of speed, both breaking her nose and possibly damaging the highly-collectable folding chair.

This latest bloody melee to rock the Oakland Coliseum has caused some to question the wisdom of giving drunken fans and emotionally unstable ballplayers metal folding chairs in the first place, a conclusion that Oakland fan Steve Teehan feels is misguided.

“Don’t jump the gun and assume that Chair Day is a bad thing just because a bunch of people get the shit beaten out of them with chairs every year,� explained Teehan, bleeding profusely from a chair-shaped gash in his forehead. “This is tradition, and families love it. I still remember the first time my dad took me to a Chair Day game, and he got arrested for braining the pretzel vendor over an exact-change dispute. We don’t want to rob our kids of these memories just because the riot police are too lazy to do their job.�

“I have a chair from every season since the A’s moved from Philly,� bragged local packrat Lester Chumrow, who is constantly being bombarded with chair-borrowing requests every time someone he knows throws a wedding or opens an AA chapter.

“Hey, don’t sit on that!� Chumrow repeated, a variation on his near-constant mantra.

Though fans are nearly unanimous in their support for the popular promotion, some in the Oakland organization have tired of the yearly spectacle.

“You give these assholes free chairs and then nobody wants to sit in their assigned seat,� complained beer vendor Hershel Lucas, bitching profusely from the mouth. “Everybody’s got some bright idea about how they’re gonna sit in their new folding chair and block the whole aisle, or some princess wants to put his feet up. Then you get the wiseasses who stack their folding chair on top of their regular seat to get a better view, and inevitably the guy sitting behind him has to push the whole mess over the railing just to see some close play at the plate.�

In the aftermath of Tuesday’s melee, which included the first reversal of the usual fan-to-field flow of thrown chairs in recent memory, officials for both teams have sounded off on whether blame for the incident should lie with Oakland fans or the Texas pitcher Francisco.

“Actually, Athletics fans are really polite,� insisted A’s vice president of stadium operations Dave Rinetti, while ducking under a chair flung from the upper deck. After a shouted “Sorry!� echoed down from the nosebleed seats, Rinetti waved a dismissal “It’s cool� in response, smiling meekly. “You should try coming here during a Raiders game. Those animals will throw you at the chairs.�

While the Rangers have claimed that Francisco had little choice but to defend his honor from vicious Oakland hecklers when he let the chair fly, some have questioned what exactly was said to the Dominican-born pitcher, and whether it was even said by either the fan whose cranium first deflected the chair or the woman who ended up with the WWF-style rhinoplasty.

“All I heard was her yelling some shit about how Francisco had mountain goat balls,� testified Oakland fan Teresa Marks, who was seated nearby. “I don’t even know what that means, but maybe he’s sensitive about his balls or something.�

“Nah, man, I heard she said his mama was Eric Chavez’s bitch,� contradicted fellow fan Sam Wilkinson, heaving a promotional chair at a security guard. “That’s cold. I’ve definitely thrown chairs for less than that.�

Francisco, who was somehow singled out for arrest during the stadium-wide chair throwing melee, claims he yelled a fair warning of “Duck, bitch!� before hurling the chair. Rangers officials expect video footage of the incident to prove Francisco’s alibi once the case goes to trial.

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1. Start smoking, then quit, then brag about it.

I bet it's not that hard, if you set your mind to it. And you were only doing it to be a dick in the first place.

2. Finally tell that cheesedick from Time Warner that I can't afford cable.

That guy's been calling every day and I can't help but feel like I'm leading him on with all the long heart-to-hearts we've been having. Time to cut the cord—or the cable, if you will. Clever.

3. Find a new place to poop.

I opened a stall in the men's room this morning, and I almost shit prematurely because that big flaming eyeball from the Lord of the Rings was in there. Woah, dude, latch the door! I know it's probably tough when you don't have any arms or anything, but you don't have any feet I can see under the stall door either, so you gotta work that out somehow. "I SEE YOOOOU!!" Yeah, no shit! I see you too, big guy! And I wish I hadn't. Now I don't need the men's room any more, I need the laundry. Fucker.

That was the second-worst experience I've had in a public bathroom this month. Yeah, now you're starting to get an idea of how my month's been going. A few weeks ago I'm on the john when all of a sudden I realize there's a chewing noise coming from the next stall over. Motherfucker was in there eating celery! I shit you not! Man, whatever kind of diet you're on, quit it, because that shit just ain't working. Try narrowing down the number of rooms you're allowed to eat in, like the rest of the human race does. I think you'll shed a few pounds.

Then again, maybe the guy was living in there. Strange, sure, but I think there's definitely somebody living in the men's room over at Subway. There's always somebody in the handicapped stall and the other day I heard the sounds of the Tonight Show coming from in there. Not a bad set-up if you can get it, though I bet you can end up with some pretty questionable neighbors.

4. Walk on my hands to Kansas.

This one pretty much explains itself.

5. Punch Burl Ives right in the goddamned teeth.

I'll have whatever the hell kind of Christmas I want to have, Jack. Thank you very much. You have yourself a merry little mouthful of broken teeth.

6. And now for a funny word: effluvia.

7. Remember the subtle-but-important difference between "a twinkle in his eye" and "a tinkle in his eye."

Stay away from maternity wards until people on the street stop referring to me as "that baby-pisser." While I'm at it, never have kids.

8. Bring the pain to Al Roker.

Ever since that guy lost all that weight, he's looked seriously bored, like he misses the thrill of living on the edge of a coronary. His biggest danger in life now is that he might have a stroke while jerking off to a magazine interview with Mandy Moore. That's just not right.

9. Kiss and make up with Catherine Zeta-Jones.

We've never had a fight or anything, or even met, but still.

10. Write a new column for the commune.

I've been running a little low on canned goods this month, and I figure I could use a—hold on, never mind. I think I've got an idea.

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As you might guess, I'm back inside the safety of my apartment. It turns out it was all some sort of misunderstanding—Lee was on tour with his new band and Camembert was with him, acting as roadie. Sure, it doesn't explain the nasty note telling me to fuck off, but it was more than enough explanation to make me happy. And now that I'm back in, I've got to get this place in better shape.

I was so happy to find a place to stay after leaving my ex-wife's house I never noticed how awful this apartment looks. Sure, it's four walls and a roof, not to mention the great floor that keeps us from falling into the crazy veteran's apartment beneath us, but it lacks panache. So the first thing I did was went out to buy a panache, but it turns out to be some kind of adjective or something instead of the burrito-making appliance I thought it was. Which leaves me wondering how they make burritos.

The walls are a bland egg-white here. Not the natural paint color, but after all the egg fights Lee and I have had, what color can you expect them to be? The yolks run down to the floor and color the carpet, the whites just stay on the walls. I'm thinking anything with a fairly light color will charm the place quite a bit, and if there's a kind of paint that makes walls softer or bouncier and resists cracking eggs it will be a plus.

I suppose the carpet is fine, light brown so it matches virtually any paint color. I believe it's light brown. It was light brown the last time I saw it—picking up some of the cans and candy bar wrappers would help. It may be light brown. Camembert told me when I moved in it was white, but that was too long ago to remember. He also complains he can't vacuum because Lee turned his vacuum into bagpipes, but that was a problem that solved itself as the bagpipes drown out the complaining.

My room is perfect, of course—the first thing I did was glue-and-glitter the walls to liven them up, and Lee's suggestion of black lights was ingenious; now all my white clothes look like neon purple. But I can't spend my redecorating talent on my room alone! I will not rest until the entire house screams "Rok Finger lives here!" The same way I do when women pass by my window.

In Rok Finger's world, of course, form follows function. My method of design follows the scheme, "If it sounds like fun, I say do it." Back when I lived with Arvelyn I had to design according to "color schemes" and "motifs." As a bachelor with no hope of trapping a woman within these walls, I design this place for fun, fun, fun! And sleeping, when necessary.

First step is to rip the carpet out—really, what purpose does it serve? I don't sleep on floors, you plebeians. I'll replace it with linoleum, like the kitchen. Now that fun we have sliding across the floor in socks can be for every room in the house! Except the bathroom, where it's too dangerous to slide around porcelain and crap cans. In there we put natural flooring—a foot of dirt and grass, which is impossible to slip on. Also, it makes it less important if you hit the toilet or not.

Something really needs to be done about these walls, too. Away with them! Walls just close people out and make the place seem smaller. No secrets here in our apartment. At least there won't be once I do away with the walls. Finally I'll be able to tell if Lee and Camembert are talking about me when I'm in the bathroom; or, as it will be known from now on, "the left side of the room."

I'm excited about the re-designing already, and as soon as I tell them, Lee and Camembert will be, too. Or if they come home later than I do, they'll be excited with the results.

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