We got a lot of emails this week, but none were better than the one we received on Wednesday from a woman who calls herself K.G. We want to share it with you, not only because we admire K.G.'s free-spirited outlook on life, but because she is seeking assistance.
Hello, friends. Long-time, no see. As a longtime-reader, I wanted help from other GIANTS SUPER FANS who dwell in SF, particularly someone with obscure, insider info about players. Plain & simple: I just got out of jail (Fuck you, 850 and your Hall of Justice). I've been oh, so lonely and deprived of a proper man's company for months. I want to reunite with my secret crush and ask him to go on a date or hang out or even turn me into his permanent love-slave.
I have recently been regretting that I was too shy to ask him out when we briefly conversed back in July 2012 at the unveiling of the newest plaque, which commemorated Matt Cain's (and the franchise's only) Perfect Game on a beautiful afternoon at the Cove.
After Kruk, Kuip and Cain's statements (and the drunken cheers that were born of my trusty, gameday Knob Creek-for-breakfast routine I do at the Lou Seal Statue behind the park), the camera's stop, VIPs started hobnobbing and taking pictures with Matt Cain, Lady Cain and Baby Cain, I made like a moderately drunk ninja and quickly made my way so close to Cain that I could smell his magic man sweat. He turned to me and I look up at him in awe and began this exchange:
K.G.:"Sign my journal."
Cain: "Hang on, I gotta take a picture." (Turns so my nose is grazing the back of his jersey)
K.G.: (waiting, turns to left side, double take) "Sergio Romo! ¿COMO ESTAS?"
Sergio: "Bien, bien. ¿Y tu?"
K.G.: "Fucking Awesome! I love my LIFE! ZOMFGWTFPLSKTHXBAI!"
I then cursed the crackhead that stole my phone in the Embarcadero Space Toilet last night, preventing me from photographing proof to show people that I'm taller than Sergio.
M.C.: "Where's your pen?"
(Autograph supplied, hand- shaken)
I spoke to two SF pitchers! I was lost in a sea of Giants uniforms! I had Cain's priceless signature scrawled in my field report journal recording the misadventures of my long-desired relocation to SF. Some lady gave me a ticket for the following day's game, Club level, behind home plate. I was so happy! So happy, I forgot to hit on Sergio.
So, yeah, I smoked myself retarded on some sticky stuff (I have $60! I mean, Glaucoma!) after I got released last night and decided to write this retardedly lame and possibly nonsensical e-mail to see if you studs and hot babes might wanna help me.
If you aren't a creepy, rapist/murderer/kidnapper/crackhead/stalker/dismemberer/sex-obsessed tweaker with meth psychosis who wants to lure me into his gingerbread house (usually a dirty SRO in sketchy TL-area hotels).
Speaking of, I gotta bail on a one-night stand at the Ole Henry!
So, if you guys have any of the following info or could help make my stoner wish come true (or if you have the aforementioned spare ticket or if you maybe want an escort (blow job included with purchase of a dank beer and garlic fries. Just kidding . . . kind of. Not really.), send the editors a message. Please! Por favor. S'il vous plait. What-have-you!!!...
Sergio's ballpark arrival time on gameday
Where does he keep his residence and possible sex dungeon?
Is there a Lady Romo? Is she hot? Possibility of threesome?
favorite SF hangouts
OR, LIKE, YOU KNOW, WHATEVER...
My name's K.G. and I want to go to a ballgame, get wasted, meet new people (all my "friends" are lame. I wanna meet people who might restore my faith in humanity.)
Look for me as soon as I do my grown-up shit at 24 Willie Mays Plaza. I'm tall, thin with a pixie cut. I'll be the girl with the bamboo Sector Nine long board (bring your skateboard).
I have no phone, but I can be reached via facebook or e-mail.)
I hope this doesn't sound retarded. Also, my self-esteem is in the red so don't rip on me too much. I may be a but crazy, a bit high, but I'm hopeful. Don't let me down!
IMPORTANT INFO THAT I SHOULD HAVE SHARED EARLIER IN THIS E-MAIL:
My fun, free, FTW lifestyle is over because of poor mistakes and poor habits that have finally taken their toll. I'm tired of this THUG LIFE!
FOR REAL THOUGH, I'M GOING TO COURT-ORDERED REHAB WITHIN THE WEEK. I'M GOING TO MY FIRST NLCS. LET'S HAVE AN BAD-ASS PARTY SO WE CAN GET NUMBER THREE SO WE CAN TIP OVER MUNI BUSES AND LIGHT VARIOUS THINGS ON FIRE AND CRASH THE SAILBOATS AND THE YAUGHT CLUB!)
DISCLAIMER: I have a terribly distasteful, inappropriate and morbid sense of humor. I'm not encouraging crimes to be committed, nor am I trying to whore myself out in exchange for gifts/money/a gazillion dollar gift card to the Dugout Store. Oh, drugs are bad, mmkay?
Let us prevail. AND PARTY HARD WITH BALLS OUT AND/ORDER TO THE WALL.
I promise I won't smoke pot again. Ever. Sorry about grammar/punctuation/etc. By the way, what are the odds that I click submit and somehow lose this plea that I tediously typed on a goddamn cell phone? Very high, no doubt.
So get to it, Deadspin readers. Help this lady out.