Idiots Write About Sports

I swear, one of my resolutions in 2006 will be to ignore Bill Plaschke, unless I’m really, really desperate for a cheap joke. But in today’s column, in which the Master of the Mono-Sentence Paragraph lauds Ned Colletti’s decision to stack the Dodgers with aging players whose greatest glories came anywhere from three to five seasons ago, Plaschke goes too far.

Tuesday’s signing of cantankerous Kenny Lofton makes it official, the Dodgers now look exactly like the San Francisco Giants, minus that awful smell of garlic fries.

Awful smell of garlic fries? Am I hearing you correctly, Plaschke? Because them’s fightin’ words, Beard-o, and I just want to make sure I didn’t misunderstand you before I unleash my fists of fury.
There are few aromas on this earth that can match the savory smell of garlic fries. Just a whiff of that unmistakable scent makes my mouth water, my stomach rumble, and my mind wander to epicurean feasts, washed down with beer, on a nice summer afternoon. Garlic fries smell of happiness, of the modern-day retro ballpark and all the charms contained there in.
In contrast, you, Plaschke, smell of unwashed socks and week-old animal scat drying in the unforgiving August sun.
I don’t pretend to speak for everyone, but I’m fairly certain of what scent I’d rather pick up.