I’m The Kiss Cam And I’m Here To Ruin Your Evening
Oh, is this not your date? My mistake.
‘Sup, I’m the Kiss Cam, every platonic duo’s nightmare. I ruin evenings by asking non-sexual seat neighbors for a big ol’ smooch. So, hold onto your hotdog, adult woman in the balcony. I’m about to make you wish you never even came to a baseball game with your young-ish-looking dad.
I’m showing up at the bottom of the sixth, when you and the rest of the stadium just wanna sit back, eat melted ice cream out of a plastic baseball cap, and yell obscenities at the pitcher. But no. YOU don’t get to relax. I’ve already spotted you and your salt-and-peppery DILF.
I light up my screen with cartoon hearts and, I’m sure, your stomach has already dropped like a baseball fumbling from a rookie’s glove.
That’s right. I’m worse than a no-hit inning. I’m worse than a third strike with the bases loaded. I’m worse than a hostess who tells you, “You and your husband can follow me right this way.” Why? Because I have the attention of 30,000 stadium-sitters who have already eaten their Cracker Jacks and have nothing better to do than watch me capture you and “Pops” on the world’s most romantic candid camera, all while blasting “What a Girl Wants.”
Don’t worry, I’ll start off slow: First, I pick an old married couple. They kiss. You probably think it’s sweet, as you start to let your guard down.
Then, it’s high school sweethearts who use an outrageous amount of tongue. Gross, but at least age-appropriate.
Next, I reach a gray-haired dude, who enthusiastically kisses the Dua Lipa look-alike next to him. Her fingers caress his crow’s feet. His hand brushes against her Pink Floyd t-shirt that definitely came from Urban Outfitters. She probably thinks Pink Floyd is a man.
Now you’re likely realizing: All bets are off. I’m coming for you.
I want you to feel worse than a merch hawker who can’t even sell one t-shirt. More helpless than a beach ball floating towards the “mean” usher. More ridiculed than that Red Sox reject Roger Clemens.
I bet right now you’re praying to the baseball gods, “Please, not us.”
But I must.
I, the Kiss Cam, am here (clap) to (clap) play (clap) games. I, a simple, computerized pastime, don’t have the coding to kick up my feet and enjoy “America’s pastime” with you. No. I’m here for a few minutes then wiped away, barely able to catch the score.
The least I can do is entertain myself by tormenting you and all the other daughters of fine-ass Daddys-turned-Dads.
Yes, now you know that I’m close, heading your way, full speed. Prepare to suddenly “need to go to the bathroom” six times in the last three innings. Get ready for your face to turn as red as the snack stand’s pumpable ketchup. I will make you wish you never came to watch grown men in matching outfits run around a field.
I finally zero in on you and — what’s that? Oh, he’s not your dad? He’s actually your aging date? I thought… well, never mind. I’ll go and find a brother and sister.
