⚠️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER (SERVED WITH A SIDE OF CHEESE-FILLED SARCASM):

 The following rant is brought to you by common sense, unfiltered joy, and a double-dose of fuck-the-system. No billionaires were harmed in the making of this rant—because they were all too busy charging you $18 for a beer and $40 to “upgrade” your seat to one that doesn’t smell like hot dog farts. Viewer discretion is advised, unless you’ve ever paid a “convenience fee” for breathing. In that case, strap in.

🎤 [GEORGE STEPS ONSTAGE, YELLOW JERSEY, BAT IN HAND]

You wanna know the most punk rock thing happening in America right now?

 Not protests.

 Not politicians.

 Not a goddamn thing involving billionaires in matching suits sucking each other off with tax write-offs.

No.

 It’s a bunch of baseball players in banana-colored jerseys doing cartwheels and humping air mattresses between pitches.

That’s right.

 The Savannah fucking Bananas.

While the NFL is busy blacking out games and MLB wants your soul for a 12-game streaming package, the Bananas are dancing on dugouts, handing out roses, and making children happy.

What a concept! Making people smile! Who the hell allowed that?!

Major League Sports™ sold their souls to sponsors decades ago. They'd wrap a logo on your grandma’s urn if it meant an extra quarter of ad revenue.

“And now, the ceremonial first pitch brought to you by Depends® Adult Diapers—FOR WHEN YOU GIVE A SHIT ABOUT THE GAME!”

Meanwhile, the Bananas?

 No ads.

 No bullshit.

 Just baseball with a side of strip-club energy and TikTok choreography that would make the Rockettes weep.

They don’t charge $80 to park.

 They don’t hit you with “service fees” for the “privilege” of buying their ticket.

 You pay once, they feed you.

Feed you.

 Like a goddamn grandma on a Sunday.

That’s not a baseball team. That’s a cult I’d join twice.

And you know what else they don’t have?

 Asshole billionaires arguing over revenue splits on ESPN while half the country can’t afford a sandwich.

 You ever hear the Bananas bitch about arbitration rights?

 Nope.

 They’re too busy setting a ball on fire and hitting it out of Fenway.

You wanna fix America?

 Start there.

 Fire every marketing executive who’s ever said the word “monetize” with a straight face.

 Replace ‘em all with Banana Nanas, Princess Potassia, and that one pitcher who throws while doing the worm.

 That’s the future.

So fuck the owners, fuck the blackouts, fuck the ads, fuck the paywalls, and fuck every greedy suit in a luxury box pretending to care.

Give me the Bananas.

 Give me dancing.

 Give me joy.

Give me the game back.

🍌 GOODNIGHT, YOU CRAZY MONKEYS.

Now go eat a free hot dog and catch a foul ball barehanded like nature intended.