DeJuan does history, or something

By DeJuan C3PO
Fly Scribe

Yesterday was a crazy day, my bitches. Dude Marv with the wack beard and that voice that sounds like Dennis Hopper from "Speed" gives me a call at damn near 6:30 a.m., a full eight hours before I was planning on rolling out of my Mattress of Magic, where the fine LaToya Hudson or someone who kind of looks like her slept beside me. After he blabbered about some damn airplane invading his airspace, he told me to get to San Francisco, pronto amigo, for live coverage of Barry Bonds chasing Baby Ruth.

Now, I ain’t gonna lie, I don’t know a whole helluva lot about baseball. Ever since all the black dudes started speaking Spanish, I haven’t been able to follow it that closely. I don’t even know why it’s such a big deal for Barry to track down some guy with a stupid-ass nickname, for second place on some chart. But whatever, DeJuan has gots to get paid, so off I went.

I’ve decided to call this segment "Deep Thoughts With DeJuan C3P0." Dude, I hope it moves you to damn tears.

9:00 a.m. Dog, don’t ever bring a ceremonial spear, obtained during the "DeJuan Doesn’t Do Disco"tour of 2001, in your carry-on when you fly United. Skanky-ass LAX security guard stole it from me, and told me if I didn’t just give to him, he wouldn’t let me on the plane. Shit. That’s my spear.

9:45 a.m. Wheels up and pants off! The fat man in the business suit sitting next to me wasn’t so pleased with this development, but man, that’s the luck of the draw when you’re on an airplane. If you’re worried about your neighbor, then drive your damn car. Pretty little stewardess told me to step off and put them back on or she’d call the captain. Dog, I know the captain has to fly the plane, I wasn’t born yesterday ... but I agreed if she gave me a free vodka and tonic. Suit ended up paying for it. Dog, the world is your oyster if you know where to swim. Wasn’t that shit profound?

11:30 p.m. San Francisco is in for a treat with DeJuan C3P0 on their home soil. After perusing the gift shop (I wanted to buy that LaToya chick a T-shirt that said, "I escaped Alcatraz." That shit is clever as hell), I also purchased a Baby Ruth candy bar. Because that is irony, and hot shit, I love irony.

12:30 p.m. I find a hotel and catch up on some lost sleep. I think my room is haunted, folks, cuz every time I turn on the TV, it’s always the same channel no matter where I turned it off. Creeps me out, dog, I don’t do ghosts. Speaking of ghosts, I’ve heard a lot about this Baby Ruth character trying to prevent Bonds from reaching his home run total from beyond the grave. Baby Ruth, let it go, that was like, 20 years ago. Move on.

2:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful Candlestick Park. Ain’t nobody here. Can’t even get into the building. What is this shit?

3:30 p.m. Here I am at beautiful AT&T Park. Couldn’t reach Marv on his cell phone (I think 2-5 are his hours designated for blackouts), but Curtis hooked me up with some good information and told me to keep an eye out for his favorite joint right down by the Candlestick, and they gave me the prime location for Giants baseball. Place called "Backyard Baseball" -– clever name and shit. And real nice dudes. Dog, people here in San Francisco are just so damn nice. One even offered to give me a ride himself, but I don’t think he had a car. Weird.

4:00 p.m. Here I am in the Giants dugout, talking to players, drinking some beers and having a good time. Curtis told me I had to say hello to Noah Lowry for him, but dude, Lowry ain’t ever heard of Curtis. There’s Pedro Gomez from the TV, so I get his autograph and shit. Damn, everybody keeps looking at me weird ... I’m just another journalist like you people, man. Here comes Barry now!

4:45 p.m. Great conversation with Bonds, man. We talked one-on-one about history and Baby Ruth and why his head is so damn big and women and all kinds of shit. Everybody’s just standing around, waiting to get a crack at Bonds and I know they’re jealous cuz they ain’t even looking in my direction. Here I am, totally shooting the shit like we’re old friends. Great times. Dog, I never knew Barry Bonds had a Latin accent, and why does he have "Benitez" written on the back of his jersey? Is this like the witness protection program or something? Homie, I think we all know who you are.

5:15 p.m. Everybody tries talking to this other guy, but he won’t talk to them, so I don’t know why they keep trying. Stupid journalists. This dude has his own little reclining chair that looks kind of comfortable, so I take a seat after he’s up, and he’s all like "Bleep bleep bleep bleep, get outta my fucking chair, whatever." Security kicked me out dog. I didn’t see that dude’s name on it, so what of that? Chairs are like music man –- shit that doesn’t belong to any one person, but to the world.

7:05 p.m. Seven hot dogs and a whole lot of press box milkshakes later, I’m ready for baseball. They announce Bonds’ name beforehand and everybody gives him a standing ovation, so I stand and clap too since it seems like the thing to do. Everyone sure does love Bonds, which is surprising cuz he whines a lot and talks about how the world hates him. Shit, I been doing that for years, and nobody gives me no round of applause.

7:21 p.m. Bonds dude walks in his at-bat, which is too bad, because I really wanted to see history get made or something. Looks like he had his chance and blew it. I decide to stick around, just on the off chance that he gets another at-bat.

8:09 p.m. He’s back and this time he hits a shallow fly ball to Juan Pierre in center during the fourth inning. Man, nice catch Juan. Later on, I heard people on the radio talking about how Juan robbed Bonds from the big home run and stole one and made this amazing catch. I thought it was nice, but nothing special. Whatever, I’m out of here, Bonds had his chance to win my love.

8:35 p.m. I see these two dudes on the way out, Chad and Lance, and I totally recognize them from Backyard Baseball. They’re so friendly and shit and want to know if I’m headed back to the bar and I say hell yes, so away we go. Place is kind of dark and there are not nearly enough fine women around for my liking, but dude, this place looks like it knows how to party.

9:25 p.m. I could go into greater detail, but dog, I’m back at the hotel and not drunk and probably never coming back to San Francisco. You can find another man to cover the Bonds thing, Marvy, cuz people in this town are not what they seem. I’m going back to L.A. as soon as I can, bitches, back to my Mattress of Magic where everything made a whole lot more sense. None of this would have happened if it weren’t for Barry Bonds, so I hope the ghost of Baby Ruth kicks your ass so bad. Peace out, homies.