I'm working my way through John Scalzi's back catalog of "Whatever" columns, when I found this gem of distilled hatred:

The chances of you being qualified to do anything else that doesn't involve answering to a Wal-Mart department manager named Earl, who makes $10.50 an hour shoving Chinese-made shoes into the racks and who hankers to move out of his doublewide and into a house with a real cement foundation, are impressively slim. If you're not ready to play until the grounds crew is ready to shoot out the lights with a BB gun so they can leave, then you shouldn't be playing baseball, period.