I hate the Dodgers.

I know it’s the easiest and laziest thing for someone to do but it’s true. I hate the Dodgers. I hate the Dodgers so much there’s almost no pointing in talking about how I feel about other teams. My mild affection for other clubs are completely outweighed by the scope and intensity of how much I hate the Dodgers.

There are lots of obvious reasons to hate the Dodgers. The way they took a beloved franchise and rebooted it in California in a cash grab that makes the adored original somehow look worse. They are the live-action Jem and the Holograms movie of baseball teams.

I hate them for their Dodger dogs, as if they were the first team to come up with the novel idea of serving meat tubes in a bun.

I hate that they spend lots of money, then get upset they don’t win championships. If I want to watch something with a big budget that thinks they’re owed success just by showing up, I’ll watch the Fantastic Four movie. At least that had Michael B Jordan

I hate the Dodgers.

I hate them for paying actual money for something called a Scott Van Slyke. Worse I hate that Scott Van Slyke, a ball player we all might have collectively imagined, hit a homerun in the Sydney game, to the confused delight of Australian fans excited that anything flying into the stands can be kept and the loud mouthed braying of dudes in LA jerseys with mohawks painted blue.

Wherever he is, I hope Scott Van Slyke stubs his toe. I hope he has a perpetual hangnail. I hope that he runs late for a fancy brunch with his in-laws and his car doesn’t start. I hope that when he carries his groceries the bag breaks and his oranges run all over.

You deserve it, Scott Van Slyke. I hate you.

But I don’t just hate Scott Van Slyke. I hate the Dodgers.

The Dodgers play in a place called Chavez Ravine. Who wants to watch a ball game in a ravine? No ravine has ever been involved in something pleasant in the entire history of geology. Chavez Ravine isn’t where you spend a sunny afternoon watching America’s Favorite Pastime. Chavez Ravine is where you hunt six-legged grub lizards in a scorched post-apocalyptic wasteland while trying to stay hidden from the radioactive Horde.

Chavez Ravine. Honestly.

I hate the Dodgers.

I hope their infield turns to quicksand. I hope the outfield is plagued by bees. I hope their bats break, their Gatorade is warm, and the names on their uniforms are misspelled.

May they never win anything ever again. I hate them.